- 


A    WEEK 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 

1887. 


Copyright,  1SS7, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Hnifatrsitn  |lrfss : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PRELUDE     i 

PROLOGUE  .....  3 

FIRST  DAY 31 

EVENING  OF  FIRST  DAY 45 

THE  ITALIAN  LETTER 55 

SECOND  DAY 75 

SECOND  DAY  (continued') 85 

EVENING  OF  SECOND  DAY 101 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  NECKLACE  ....  103 

THIRD  DAY 125 

EVENING  OF  THIRD  DAY 141 

THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 156 

FOURTH  DAY  .- 167 

EVENING  OF  FOURTH  DAY 181 

THE  PALACE  OF  THE  CLOSED  WINDOW  .  .  191 

FIFTH  DAY 241 

IN  WAR-TIME;  OR,  ONLY  A  WOMAN'S  SHOE  251 

EVENING  OF  FIFTH  DAY 283 

SIXTH  DAY 291 


202      52 


iv  Contents. 

PAGE 

EVENING  OF  SIXTH  DAY 295 

THE  VOICE 295 

SEVENTH  DAY 311 

EVENING  OF  SEVENTH  DAY 325 

HAPPINESS 331 


PRELUDE. 

Not  under  Olive  nor  the  Tuscan  pine 

Sat  this  enchanted  circle,  as  of  old 

They  sat  ivho  heard  Boccaccio's  story  told ; 

Yet  are  these  spirits  of  a  kindred  line, 

Who  in  their  ozvn  Fair  Harbor  dream,  and  tell 

The  matter  of  their  dreaming,  wJiile  the  spell 

Of  Indian  snnsets  and  sea-breakers  bold 

Braids  the  romance  wherewith  their  voices  twine. 


What  mortal  could  be  sick  or  sorry  here  ! 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

And  all  ive  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood. 

.  .  .  And  in  my  breast 

Spring  wakens  too,  and  my  regret 

Becomes  an  April  violet, 
And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

TENNYSON. 

Ver  illud  erat.  —  VIRGIL. 


PROLOGUE. 


FAIR  HARBOR. 

FAIR  HARBOR  is  one  of  the  few  places 
now  left  in  the  world  which  most  people 
know  nothing  about.  You  may  coiint  on 
your  fingers  the  men  and  women  who  have 
ever  heard  of  it ;  and  if  you  have  the  usual 
number  of  fingers,  your  list  will  come  to  an 
end  first. 

You  are  lucky  if  your  own  name  find  a 
place  among  the  few  who,  led  by  chance  or 
by  natural  selection,  have  come  upon  this 
singularly  pretty  and  attractive  bit  of  the 
very  tip  end  of  the  heel  of  Cape  Cod}  I 

1  Thoreau  calls  Cape  Cod  "  the  bared  and  bended  arm 
of  Massachusetts"  and  Buzzard's  Bay  "  the  shoulder." 
Then  Fair  Harbor  should  be  about  the  elbow,  or  "  crazy 
bone." 


4  Prologue. 

say  come  upon  advisedly ;  for  yon  may 
live  all  unsuspecting  in  its  near  neigli- 
borhood,  and  lo  !  one  day  yon  turn  a  corner, 
either  from  tlie  sea  or  the  shore,  and  you 
are  there  !  You  may  drive  from  Falmouth 
to  Wood's  Holl forty  times,  and  never  dream 
that  if  you  had  taken  a  certain  turn  doivn 
a  green  lane  to  your  left  you  would  have 
come  after  a  little  to  zvhat  would  seem  to 
you  enchanted  ground,  —  the  tiny  harbor 
lying  still  and  peaceful  between  ivooded 
banks  and  high  pastures  and  headlands 
stretching  with  graceful  curves  into  the 
beautiful  bay  beyond.  Or  you  migJit  sail 
forever  across  from  Mattapoisett  down  Buz 
zard's  Bay  and  never  steer  near  enough  to 
the  opening  which,  once  seen,  would  draw 
you  to  the  fairy  inlet  where  tJie  voices  of 
sirens  singing  to  your  soul  would  bid  you 
stay  and  be  at  rest. 

The  southwestern  breezes  come  fresh  and 
cool  np  from  Florida,  up  from  the  Gulf 


Prologue.  5 

Stream,  soft  as  a  doves  wing,  bringing 
healing  and  balm  to  nerves  hurt  and  over 
wrought  by  the  "  whips  of  tJie  east  wind " 
and  the  exciting  air  of  other  parts  of  the 
New  England  coast,  hinting  of  icebergs 
while  the  hot  sun  biirns.  The  wonderful 
quality  of  the  air  differentiates  this  whole 
region,  and  gives  it  a  positive  character  of 
its  own.  Its  special  grace  is  temperance ; 
fierce  heat  and  sharp  cold  are  here  alike 
unknown. 

At  the  time  our  story  opens,  Fair  Harbor 
had,  as  I  have  said,  few  acquaintances,  and 
so,  few  lovers.  These  few,  however,  made 
up  for  their  rarity  by  an  intensity  of  affec 
tion  which  somehow  always  assumed  a  very 
personal  form,  and  this  little  fragment  of 
the  world  became  to  them  a  beloved  strong 
hold,  intrenched  in  which  they  pointed  their 
guns  at  the  rest  of  mankind,  demanded  their 
sympathy  or  their  life,  and  were  themselves 
ready  to  die  in  defence  of  their  citadel. 


6  Prologue. 

Margaret  Temple  passed  a  good  deal  of 
her  time  in  this  defensive  attitiide  toiuards 
the  Philistines,  who  did  not  know  or  did  not 
care  for  her  "pays  de  predilection'.'1  She 
was  one  of  tJie  rare  people  w/io  really 
love  Natiire  among  the  thousands  of  fake 
worshippers  who  wrong  tier  by  lip  ser 
vice  while  their  hearts  are  far  from  her. 
Hers  was  no  fitful  homage,  rendered  at 
one  season  and  denied  at  another.  She 
walked  through  the  days  and  years,  doing 
loving  and  reverent  service  at  the  shrine  of 
her  Alma  Mater,  and  her  lamp  burned  as 
constantly  and  brightly  in  storm  as  in  sun 
shine.  "It  is  poor  love','  she  used  to  say, 
"  which  cannot  bear  a  frown  or  a  stern 
look  from  the  object  of  its  affection,  and 
which  depends  upon  smiles  and  soft  words 
for  its  loyalty'' 

She  had  discovered  Fair  Harbor  ivhile 
staying  in  its  neighborhood  one  summer, 
after  having  been  in  Europe  for  several 


Prologue. 


years.  Her  husband,  for  whose  health  they 
remained  abroad,  had  died  there,  and  tier 
only  brother  went  to  Algiers  to  meet  her 
and  bring  her  home.  The  brother  and  sis 
ter,  although  quite  different,  were  very  near 
to  each  other,  and  had  a  true  and  inti 
mate  sympathy,  which  consanguinity  by  no 
means  always  implies,  but  which  when  it 
does  exist  in  this  special  relationship  is  apt 
to  be  of  very  beautiful  and  perfect  quality. 
Margaret's  hiLsband  had  been  much  older 
than  herself  (she  was  very  young  when  she 
married},  and  their  union  was  rather  that 
of  father  and  daughter.  He  became  a  con 
formed  invalid  soon  after  t/ieir  marriage, 
and  her  ivhole  time  and  care  had  been  con 
centrated  upon  him.  Her  grief  at  his  death 
was  as  genuine  as  was  everything  about  her, 
and  for  some  years  she  lived  very  quietly, 
and  saw  only  her  own  people  and  intimate 
friends.  But  she  was  still  young ;  she  had 
absolute  health  and  wonderful  vitality,  and 


8  Prologue. 

a  freshness  of  sympathy  and  interest  in  peo 
ple  and  things  which  made  her  life  full  and 
rich,  and  of  much  meaning  to  herself  and 
others. 

She  was  a  handsome  creature,  tall  and 
beautifully  made,  with  a  firm,  elastic  step, 
and  bounding,  joyful  movements,  as  if  only 
to  be  alive  were  a  delight.  Wlicn  sJie  was  a 
young  girl  she  used  to  say  that  she  never 
opened  Jier  eyes  in  the  morning  without 
thanking  God  for  another  day,  —  and  when 
she  thanked  Him  on  her  knees  for  her 
"  creation,  preservation,  and  all  the  bless 
ings  of  this  life','1  it  ivas  with  a  profound 
gladness  that  she  had  been  born  into  the 
world.  The  fairies  ivJw  presided  at  her 
birth  knew  very  well  what  they  were  doing 
when  they  gave  her  this  supremely  fortu 
nate  nature ;  knciu  that  it  was  better  tJiau 
genius  or  gold ;  something  which  neither 
moth  nor  rust  could  corrupt ;  which  thieves 
might  covet,  but  could  not  steal.  Not  the 


Prologue.  9 

tender est  sympathy  for  the  sorrows  and  sins 
of  otliers,  nor  a  true  humility  with  regard 
to  herself ;  not  the  untruth  or  unkindness, 
which,  like  all  of  us,  she  sometimes  encoun 
tered,  coiild  kill  out  the  cheerful,  hopeful, 
buoyant  heart  of  her ;  and  she  still  thanked 
God  for  her  creation,  and  blessed  Him  for 
every  day  that  He  made,  and  said,  "  Let  us 
rejoice  and  be  glad  in  it!"  Besides  this 
dower  of  Nature,  she  had  pre-eminently  a 
good  temper,  as  distinguished  from  good 
nature,  or  good-humor ;  and  if  you  have 
read  the  Rev.  James  Freeman  Clarke's  ser 
mon  on  "  The  Education  of  the  Temper" 
you  will  know  what  I  mean ;  and  if  you 
have  not,  you  had  better  do  so. 

In  the  spring  of  188-  Margaret  went  to 
Fair  Harbor  to  pass  a  few  weeks  alone. 
She  wrote  to  her  brother  Ralph  (who  had 
been  living  in  New  York  lately,  and  was  a 
flourishing  stockbroker],  and  tried  to  per 
suade  him  to  take  a  spring  vacation  and 


i  o  Prologue. 


join  her ;  but  Jie  said  tilings  were  very 
lively  just  then,  and  made  merry  allusions 
to  bulls  and  bears,  —  the  fauna  of  Wall 
Street,  he  called  them,  which  must  have  a 
prior  claim  over  the  flora  of  the  Cape,  — 
and,  in  fine,  he  could  not  come.  Margaret 
meant  to  go  across  the  water  in  June  for 
the  summer  months,  and  Ralph  promised 
to  be  with  her  at  Fair  Harbor  when  she 
returned  in  the  autumn.  So  Margaret 
went  to  Fair  Harbor  alone,  and,  truth  to 
say,  did  n  t  mind  it  in  the  least.  She  knew 
most  of  the  towns  in  Barnstable  County  by 
heart,  and  the  farmers  and  retired  sea-cap 
tains  and  their  families  who  lived  in  them 
liked  her  as  well  as  she  liked  them,  and 
welcomed  her  to  their  houses  as  their  hon 
ored  guest  and  good  friend.  TJiey  hardly 
understood  her  enthusiasm  for  the  places 
they  had  known  all  their  lives,  and  felt 
towards  her  very  much  as  the  White  Moun 
tain  stage-driver  did  to  the  New  York 


Prologue.  1 1 

tourist.  "  O  no  /  I  dorit  mind  stoppin  a 
bit  while  yoit,  stare  around.  I  dare  say  if 
I  was  doivii  to  York  I  should  ivant  to  go 
gawpin  about  same  as  you  do  up  here !  " 
Or  like  the  Roman  lady  who  said  to  the  en 
thusiastic  American,  raving  over  the  beau 
ties  of  the  Campagna,  "  But  what  you 
artists  and  l  fores  fieri '  find  to  admire  in 
this  gloomy,  hateful,  malarial  old  spot  is 
what  we  Italians  cannot  understand.  Come 
out  to  my  villa  to-morrow,  and  I  will  show 
you  lovely  gardens  and  fountains  and  ter 
races.  There,  indeed,  it  is  beautiful!" 

However,  the  good  people  on  the  Cape 
admired  Margaret  so  much  tliat  they  began 
to  suspect  there  must  be  advantages  in  their 
surroundings  to  which  they  had  hitherto 
been  blind. 

It  was  blossoming-time  for  the  apple- 
trees  and  lilacs ;  the  beach-plum  all  along 
the  roadsides  made  white  patches  like  soft 


1 2  Prologue. 

snow-falls,  and  here  and  there  formed 
hedges  which  looked  like  banks  of  snow 
in  the  distance,  and  as  one  came  near,  it 
smelt  sweet  as  honey,  with  branches  all 
chisters  of  delicate  flowers  like  hawthorn. 
The  birds  welcomed  Margaret  with  new 
songs  that  sounded  all  the  sweeter  for  being 
old  ones,  and  told  her  they  had  learned 
them  for  her  sake.  Song-sparrows,  blue 
birds,  yellow-throated  warblers,  greeted  her 
as  they  flew  from  bough  to  bough;  slie 
heard  the  quivering  note  and  plaintive  cry 
of  the  plover,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
friendly  family  of  quails  would  cross  the 
road  in  front  of  Jier  in  a  leisurely  manner, 
enjoying  the  immunity  of  life  which  a  few 
months  would  endanger. 

She  was  stopping  at  an  old  farm-house 
in  the  lane  that  led  down  to  the  Harbor, 
with  Captain  Nye  and  his  wife,  old  friends 
of  hers,  to  whom  her  coming  was  always  a 
festival.  They  had  lost  their  only  daughter 


Prologue.  1 3 

many  years  ago,  and  they  fancied  that  Mar 
garet  looked  like  her.  "  She  has  our  An 
nie  s  eyes,  mother,  she  surely  do"  the  old 
captain  had  said  the  Jirst  time  tJiey  ever 
saw  Margaret,  his  own  eyes  full  of  tears. 
"  She  favors  Annie  greatly,  and  brings  her 
right  back  to  me,  though  V  is  many  a  long 
year  since  we  laid  her  in  tJie  churchyard 
yonder"  the  mother  answered.  "  She  'd  V 
been  just  about  Mis'  Temple  s  age  now. 
Dear !  dear !  But  the  L ord  knows  best" 
"  And  blessed  be  His  name  !"  said  the  old 
man  reverently. 

So  there  was  nothing  possible  to  be  done 
which  the  worthy  couple  did  not  do  for 
Margaret" s  comfort  and  satisfaction.  Cap 
tain  Nye  was  joint-owner  of  an  oyster-bed 
in  a  little  fresh-water  river  which  ran  into 
the  bay  near  by ;  and  "  even  the  most  be 
nighted  Bostonian  knows"  said  Margaret, 
"  that  there  are  no  oysters  like  Cape  oysters  ; 
and  tJie  beauty  of  tJicm  is,  that,  unlike  ordt- 


1 4  Prologue. 


nary  bivalves,  they  need  no  R  in  the  month 
to  make  tJiem  eatable.  TJicy  are  just  tJie 
nicest  oysters  in  the  world  all  the  year 
round,"  —  a  proposition  which  she  stated  so 
sturdily  that  no  one  ever  thought  of  dis 
puting  it.  As  to  sea  trout,  they  were  a 
drug  in  her  market.  "  They  swim  to  my 
door','  she  declared,  "  and  implore  me  to  cat 
them?  Certainly  they  came  to  her  often, 
from  up  tJie  Day,  generally  in  baskets, 
smothered  in  moss  and  mayflowers,  with 
cards  attached,  bearing,  not  the  names  of 
the  Jish,  but  of  their  captors,  laying  them- 
selves  and  their  spoils  at  her  feet. 

One  evening'  she  was  walking  slowly  back 
to  the  house  from  the  wharf,  where  she  had 
just  left  her  row-boat.  She  had  been  row 
ing  about  the  little  harbor  in  the  sunset^ 
exploring  the  pretty  coves  she  had  explored 
so  often,  or  floating  with  oars  at  rest,  feast 
ing  on  the  glory  of  color  in  sky  and  sea, 
dreaming  dreams  with  half-shut  eyes, 


Prologue.  1 5 

the  young  May  moon  smiled  at  her  over 
her  right  shoulder  (she  held  a  good  deal  to 
that] ,  and  one  by  one  the  stars  shone. 

As  she  walked  up  the  lane  to  the  farm 
house,  a  handsome  red  IrisJi  setter  came 
bounding  across  the  fields,  and  ran  towards 
her  with  miich  leaping  and  wagging  of  the 
tail  and  other  marks  of  recognition*  "  Why, 
Erin  !  Where  did  you  come  from,  Erin,  and 
what  are  you  doing  here  alone  ?  "  Mar 
garet  looked  over  the  fields  to  the  large 
white  house  at  the  head  of  the  Harbor, 
where  she  knew  the  dog  belonged,  and  saw 
that  the  wide,  dark-green  blinds  were  closed, 
and  the  whole  house  wore  an  empty,  de 
serted  air.  Erin  evidently  knew  all  about 
it ;  but  as  he  did  not  tell,  they  went  on  to 
gether  to  Captain  Nyes,  where  Mrs.  Nye 
stood  waiting  on  the  porch  step. 

"  There,  Mis'  Temple,  I  was  just  telling 
the  Cap'n  he  \i  better  go  and  look  for  you. 
Them  quahog  cakes  is  just  hot  and  done  to 


1 6  Prologue. 

a  tiirn  ;  and,  says  I,  Mis'  Temple  's  fell 
a-dreamin  out  in  her  boat,  and  you  'd  bet 
ter  go  and  look  her  up,  for  she  docs  like 
quahog  cakes  first-rater 

"  77m/  /  do,  Mrs.  Nye.  I'll  come  in 
tJiis  mimite ;  and  pray  ask  the  Captain  to 
come  and  cat  his  supper  with  me  this  even 
ing.  I  suppose  it 's  of  no  use  to  ask  you  ?  ' 

"  Why,  bless  you,  no  ! "  exclaimed  Jlfrs. 
Nye.  "And  if  I  did,  who  in  mercy  s 
name 's  going  to  mind  the  cakes  ?  You 
don't  suppose  I'd  trust  'em  to  D rushy- Ann, 
do  you  ?  She  'd  burn  'em  to  a  cinder,  or 
else  serve  'cm  raw  as  raw.  But  I'll  tell 
father,  and  it  'II  please  him  clear  round. 
Come  along,  Erin ;  you  've  come  for  your 
supper  too,  I  guess!" 

Margaret  found  the  table  covered  with 
good  tilings,  of  which  the  quaJwg  cakes 
were  the  final  expression  and  fiowcr ;  and 
presently  in  came  the  Captain,  his  weather- 
beaten  face  and  Jiands  sliining  'with  soap 


Prologue.  1 7 

and  water,  his  best  wig  on  (Jie  had  one  of  a 
rusty  brown  for  every  day,  and  a  lustrous 
black  one  for  Sunday),  and  a  big,  white, 
starched  shirt-collar,  the  points  of  which 
stuck  into  his  eyes  at  intervals  ^and  made 
him  wink.  Erin,  too,  considered  himself 
invited,  and  stretched  himself  contentedly  at 
Margaret's  feet,  asking  no  questions. 

Captain  Nye  and  Margaret  were  great 
cronies.  She  declared  there  was  not  one 
of  her  male  friends  from  whom  she  got 
more  solid  information  and  soitndcr  phi 
losophy  than  from  old  "  Cap'n  Bishy"  as 
he  was  called  round  about. 

"  /  noticed  that  the  White  House  was 
closed,  as  I  came  along.  What  has  hap 
pened  there  since  last  year  ?  v 

"  You  may  well  ask''  replied  the  Captain. 
"  That  house  is  an  eyesore  to  me  whenever 
I  look  at  it ;  and  it  used  to  be  so  lively, — 
what  with  the  human  beins  and  the  dumb 
critturs.  Well,  I  sometimes  tell  mother  she 


1 8  Prologue. 

and  I  have  lived  too  long.  We  are  aboiit 
the  only  things  that  seem  to  stand  by  and 
not  go  off  out  o  Fair  Harbor  one  way  or 
another'.' 

"  Tell  me  about  the  Sandersons,  and  why 
they  left  the  place" 

"  Well,  you  see  old  Squire  Sanderson 
died  just  after  you  was  here  last  fall,  and 
poor  Mis  Sanderson  she  almost  died  her 
self,  grievin  after  him.  Their  .only  son  's 
away  at  sea.  He  's  captain  of  a  merchant- 
vessel,  you  know,  and^s  mostly  away,  and 
they  W  buried  their  otlier  children  on  and 
off,  all  but  Mary  Ann,  and  she  's  married 
and  lives  over  to  New  Bedford,  —  married 
lawyer  Doane,  a  likely  young  fclloiu.  Mary 
Ann  came  to  stop  with  her  mother  zv/icn 
the  Sqiiire  died,  and  secin  her  so  broken 
down  and  lonesome,  she  just  insisted  on 
takin  her  back  to  Bedford.  You  see  V  is 
quiet  here  in  the  winter,  and  no  mistake, 
and  there  's  a  good  deal  <?'  stir  to  Bedford ; 


Prologue.  1 9 

so  the  old  lady  went,  and  she  's  there  now, 
and  she  's  got  Mary  Anns  baby  to  pet  and 
play  ivith,  and  I  guess  she  's  considerable 
consoled.  The  White  House  and  the  barn 
and  all  the  critturs  and  fixiris  are  to  let, 
and  I  do  wish  some  clever  folks  would 
come  and  take  'em.  I  promised  I'd  look 
after  the  place  and  the  live-stock  until 
somethin  turned  up ;  and  Erin  here,  he  's 
mostly  with  us,  always  at  meal-times  and 
at  nigJit,  though  he  lies  in  the  sun  in  front 
of  the  White  House  daytimes,  and  seems 
to  be  waitin  for  somebody.  It  was  kind  o 
cute  his  knowin  you,  was  nt  it  ?  I  dont 
suppose  now"  said  the  Captain,  looking  at 
Margaret,  —  "  I  don't  sitppose  —  " 

"  / 'm  not  at  all  sure  I  would n't','  said 
Margaret.  "  Can  one  get  into  the  house 
to  see  it?" 

"  Oh, yes,  to  be  sure.  I've  got  the  keys  in 
charge,  and  the  whole  concern,  and  I 'II  take 
you  all  over  the  place  any  time'.' 


2O  Prologue. 

"  To-morrow  'morning,  then"  said  Mar 
garet. 

And  the  next  day  they  did  go  all  over  the 
place;  and  Margaret  (whose  principle  it 
was,  when  you  like  a  thing  and  want  it,  take 
it  if  yon  can  get  it)  then  and  there  bought 
the  ho2isc  and  farm  and  all  the  belongings, 
—  wagons  and  farm  horses,  four  good  cows 
(natives  crossed  with  Jersey),  and  beehives 
on  a  settle  in  the  apple-orchard;  a  vege 
table  garden  behind  the  house,  with  a  border 
of  twigs  for  sweet  peas  to  climb  on,  and 
plenty  of  sweet-smelling  herbs ;  in  front 
of  the  house  a  flower-garden,  zvith  paths 
divided  by  high  rows  of  box,  where  grew 
guelder  roses  and  calycanthus  and  Persian 
lilacs,  and  all  manner  of  old-fashioned 
shrubs  and  flowers.  There  was  a  grove 
of  trees  on  one  side,  walking  down  to  the 
water  s  edge,  and  the  path  along  the  high 
bank  was  bordered  with  sumac h  and  bar 
berry  bushes,  and  whortleberry  and  bay- 


Prologue.  2 1 

berry  and  sweet-fern,  growing  thick  and 
fast,  and  giving  promise  of  rich  color  for 
the  autumn-tide*  There  were  broad,  green 
fields  for  the  cows'  pleasure-grounds,  and 
JiigJi  pasture  lands  where  sJiccp  migJit 
browse ;  and  the  grassy  lawn  beyond  the 
garden  led  straight  down  to  the  little  beach, 
and  to  the  wharf  for  boats. 

Afterwards,  when  Captain  Nyc  was  talk 
ing  it  over  with  his  wife,  he  said:  "  As  we 
were  walkin  up  to  the  White  House,  Mis' 
Temple  says  to  me,  says  she,  '  Cap'n,  I  do 
hope  there '//  be  three  kinds  of  flowers  in 
that  garden,  —  three  special  kinds  that  I 
love,  and  used  to  have  in  a  garden  of  my 
own  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  In  fact',  says 
she,  '  if  those  flowers  ainl  there,  I  dont 
know  as  I  shall  take  the  place"  I  was  kind 
o"  nervous  when  she  spoke  like  tliat,  for  I 
did  want  her  to  buy ;  and  I  was  afraid  it 
was  some  o1  them  rare  things  she  meant, 
that  they  have  in  gardens,  —  Mis  May  's 


2  2  Prologue. 

got  some,  you  know,  over  to  Wood's  Holl. 
High-breds,  I  believe  they  call  'em.  But 
there,  wJiat  do  you  think,  mother?  She 
went  into  the  garden  and  looked  about  for 
a  while,  and  then  she  said,  qiiite  joyful-like, 
''  Oh,  here  they  are,  Cap'n,  every  one  ! '  And 
she  stooped  down  and  made  tier  a  little 
boquay,  and  put  ''em  into  her  dress,  and 
she  kissed  'em,  and  I  believe  to  mercy  site 
cried  over  'em  some.  And  what  do  yoit 
think  tJiey  were  ?  Jiist  ladies'  dcligJits,  — 
the  little  old-fashioned  kind,  yoii  know, — 
and  striped  grass,  and  '  stars  of  Bethlehem" 
she  called  'em." 

"  Well,  well','  said  Mrs.  Nye,  "  /  've  given 
up  calculatin  on  city  folks.  They  seem  to 
go  jiist  contrary  to  what  you  'd  expect. 
They  dont  care  for  the  things  you  'd  figure 
t/iey  'd  set  by ;  and  then  they  just  go  crazy 
over  some  little  unsignified  thing  that  seem- 
in  ly  ain  t  of  no  acco^mt.  I  do  believe  Mis' 
Temple  thinks  more  of  a  glass  o  new  milk 


Prologue.  2  3 

and  a  fresh  churniri  o  butter  tlian  she 
does  of  the  best  pies  and  plum-cake  and  jell 
that  I  can  set  before  her.  And  my  last 
putting  iip  of  grape  and  quince  jell  was 
just  splendid,  if  I  do  say  it" 

"  /  shall  depend  upon  yoii  for  oysters, 
Captain','1  said  Margaret.  "  But  quahog 
cakes  !  What  shall  I  do  for  them  ?  " 

"  Sakes  alive!"  cried  Mrs.  Nye,  "Til 
be  bound  your  city  cook  '//  make  'em  much 
better  than  me ;  but  you  've  only  to  say  the 
word  any  time,  and  I 'II  come  over  and  show 
her,  if  she  cant." 

"  That's  a  bargain"  said  Margaret.  "/ 
know  I  shall  never  have  such  good  things, 
or  like  my  housekeeping  as  well  as  yours ; 
but  I  want  to  ask  some  of  my  friends  to 
come  to  me  in  the  aiitiimn,  and  I  must  have 
a  big  house  to  hold  them" 

TJie  next  morning,  before  Margaret  went 
back  to  town,  she  walked  across  the  fields  to 


24  Prolog^le. 


view  Jier  new  possessions.  TJie  day  was 
f-iir,  and  as  delicate-tinted  as  any  opal,  — 
suck  a  day  as  comes  far  oftener  to  our  Neiv 
England  coast  in  spring  tJian  its  maligners 
would  kave  the  world  believe.  Margarefs 

CJ 

mood  was  in  accord  witk  the  time;  and 
as  ske  walked  along,  her  handsome  head 
thrown  back,  her  dark  eyes  deivy  and  sweet, 
her  pulses  beating  time  to  the  song  in  her 
heart,  her  hands  full  of  wild  Jlowers,  she 
made  a  charming  picture.  "  For  spring 
still  makes  spring  in  the  mind"  says  Emer 
son,  who  knew  tlie  secret  of  eternal  youth. 
A  soft  breeze  blew  from  the  water,  bowing 
the  tall  grass  and  chasing  the  shadozvs  it 
made  as  it  ran  JiitJier  and  yon  among  the 
fields,  and  sending  great  whiff's  of  perfume 
from  the  lilac  hedge  over  the  stone  wall. 
The  roadside  was  gay  with  spring  coloring. 
Red  columbines  and  blue  violets ;  wild  gera 
nium  and  the  golden-hearted  strazvberry 
blossom;  Solomons  seal  and  anemones,  and 


Prologue.  2  5 

that  most  delicate  and  gracefullest  of  vines, 
the  blackberry  ;  the  purple-pink  fringed  po 
ly  gala  ;  the  cassandra,  or  leather- leaf,  hold 
ing  its  white  racemes  on  one  side,  —  they 
were  all  here  at  Margaret '  s  feet,  and  sJie 
took  tribute  from  them  all.  She  crossed  a 
piece  of  white-sanded  beach,  and  walked  up 
the  bank  through  the  little  wood  at  whose 

o 

edges  the  shad-blossom  and  dogwood  were 
in  white  bloom.  There  were  maple-trees 
among  the  pines,  clothed  in  tender  shades 
of  red  and  pale  green,  waving  graceful 
tassels  in  the  breeze;  and  oaks  trying  to 
make  up  for  lost  time,  and  bud  and  boiir- 
geon  witli  the  rest.  "  How  much  red  there 
is  in  the  springtime ! "  said  Margaret. 
She  had  the  habit,  common  to  those  who 
live  alone  a  good  deal,  of  talking  to  herself. 
"  Why  do  people  speak  as  if  green  were  its 
only  wear?  Charles  d' Or  leans  knew  better 

when  he  said,  — 

'  Un  premier  jour  du  mois  de  Mai, 
De  tanne  et  de  vert  perdu? 


2  6  Prologue. 

I  never  could  quite  get  the  right  English 
word  for  '  lanne,'  by  the  bye,  —  tan-color 
does  11 V  just  express  it"  SJic  sat  down  ou 
the  soft  moss,  sprinkled  with  partridge- 
berry  and  wintergreen,  and  murmitrcd,  — 

"  The  green  grass  is  bowing, 
The  morning  wind  is  in  it ; 
'Tis  a  tune  worth  thy  knowing, 
Though  it  change  every  minute. 
'Tis  a  tune  of  the  Spring, 
Every  year  sings  it  over? 

"  Every  year  sings  —  sings  —  "  And  Mar 
garet  fell  into  a  gentle  slumber,  and  dreamed 
that  she  was  at  home  in  Boston,  and  that 
her  sister  and  brother-in-law  were  laugh 
ing  at  her  terribly  for  her  purchase  of  the 
Sanderson  estate,  and  she  was  getting  very 
angry  and  very  miserable;  and  then  she 
dreamed  that  some  one  stood  beside  her,  and 
a  voice  she  had  not  heard  for  years  said 
earnestly,  "  It  is  well ;  and  better  than  yoii 
know  remains  behind" 


Prologue.  2  7 

A  slight  noise  in  the  underbrush  wak 
ened  Margaret,  and  Erin  was  by  her  side, 
looking  at  her  a  little  anxiously,  until  slie 
spoke  to  hint  and  told  him  she  had  not  lost 
her  path  nor  fallen  by  the  way.  "  /  have 
only  had  a  dream,  Erin"  she  said.  So 
they  went  on  to  the  White  House,  Erin 
marching  soberly,  with  a  dignified  manner, 
for  lie  knew  he  was  her  natural  guide 
about  his  old  home,  and  felt  the  responsi 
bility  of  the  situation. 

"  As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood 
A  notice  faintly  understood, 
'  I  see  the  end  and  know  the  good? 

"Like  an  sEolian  harp  that  wakes 
No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 
Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes. 

"  Such  seemed  the  whisper  at  my  side. 
'  What  is  V  thou  know'st,  sweet  voice  ? '  /  cried. 
1A  hidden  hope]  the  voice  replied? 


//  was  October  with  the  heart  of  May. 

E.  S.  PHELPS. 

And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang, 
To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 

TENNYSON. 

//  may  be  that  the  gulfs  shall  wash  us  down, 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles. 

TENNYSON. 


FIRST   DAY. 

"  Now,  please  don't  begin  with  a  prejudice, 
Ralph !  " 

"  My  dear  Margaret,"  said  Ralph  gravely,  "  I 
am  surprised  at  you !  I  thought  you  knew 
Latin.  If  I  am  to  have  any  prejudices  at  all 
(and  pray  don't  attempt  to  deprive  me  of  them, 
they  are  among  the  few  things  I  have  to  be 
proud  of),  I  must  begin  with  them.  One  can 
not  end  with  a  prejudice.  For  the  word  is 
formed  of  two  Latin  ones,  fre,  signifying — " 

"  Oh,  Ralph,  how  can  you  be  so  provoking !  " 
exclaimed  his  sister.  "  I  dare  say  \ve  shall  find 
the  girl  delightful,  and  end  by  all  falling  in  love 
with  her.  At  any  rate,  you  know  I  am  doing 
the  right  thing  in  asking  her  to  come  here. 
You  know  how  very  nice  her  people  were  to 
me  in  England,  and  you  ought  to  be  glad 


32          A   Week  away  from  Time. 

that  I  can  show  any  attention  to  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede  at  this  season  of  the  year,  when  no 
one  is  in  Boston." 

"  It 's  so  like  English  people  to  go  there  at 
this  season,"  said  Ralph.  "  And  how  on  earth 
does  she  happen  to  be  over  here  at  all?  I  sup 
pose  she  is  one  of  those  terrible  Englishwomen 
who  have  lately  taken  to  travelling  about  in 
squads,  quite  able  to  take  care  of  themselves, 
pour  cause,  with  long  pointed  noses  all  ready 
to  sniff,  smooth,  uncompromising  hair  taken 
straight  off  their  brows ;  long  of  limb,  water 
proof  as  to  attire,  carrying  sketching  materials 
about  with  them  wherever  they  go,  —  though 
never  yet  have  I  seen  one  of  them  make  a  pic 
ture;  utterly  unmusical,  yet  calmly  sitting  down 
to  the  piano  unbidden  of  evenings,  and  singing 
English  songs  as  devoid  of  melody  as  their 
voices.  I  can  see  them  from  here." 

"  I  don't  know  if  she  sketches,  nor  how  she 
sings,  nor  even  how  she  looks.  I  have  never 
seen  her,"  said  Margaret.  "  When  I  stayed 
with  her  parents  in  Devonshire,  she  was  away 
on  the  Continent  —  " 


A    Week  away  from   Time.          33 

"  Of  course,"  interjected  Ralph,  "  travelling 
in  a  squad,  I  dare  say  —  " 

"  With  her  aunt,  Lady  Molyneux,"  went  on 
Margaret,  regardless  of  the  interruption;  "but 
I  heard  of  her  constantly  as  a  very  charming 
girl,  and  I  shall  feel  that  she  is  until  I  find  that 
she  is  not.  And  you  will  be  very  nice  to  her, 
to  please  me,  even  if  you  think  her  detestable, 
because  you  are  a  great  dear,  however  horrid 
you  may  seem." 

"  That  being  the  case,  my  '  prepotente  '  sister, 
and  having  told  me  how  I  ought  to  feel,  please 
tell  me  what  I  must  do !  Am  I  to  drive  you 
to  the  station  to  meet  this  young  woman  with 
two  names,  —  for  I  believe  she  is  to  arrive  this 
afternoon,  —  and  by  which  name  shall  I  look 
for  her?  " 

"  Listen,"  said  Margaret,  "  to  a  letter  I  had 
this  morning  from  Bell,  who,  wonderful  to  re 
late,  is  going  to  rouse  herself  sufficiently  to 
come  to  this  despised  spot  after  a  summer  at 
Bar  Harbor." 

Margaret  took  a  letter  from  the  table  and 
read :  — 

3 


34          A   Week  away  from   Time. 

BOSTON,  Saturday,  September  29. 

You  DEAR  UTOPIAN,  —  I  can  conceive  of  nothing 
more  incongruous,  more  absolutely  untoward,  than  the 
presence  of  that  English  girl  with  the  two  names 
(Tom  calls  her  the  two-headed  girl)  in  the  midst  of 
our  family  party  for  a  whole  week,  and  —  Heaven  save 
the  mark!  —  at  Cape  Cod!  ["There!  you  see!" 
grumbled  Ralph.]  But  since  you  will  have  it  so, 
and  since,  I  confess,  whatever  you  undertake  in  this 
line  is  apt  to  turn  out  well,  I  will  do  your  bidding,  — 
call  upon  General  and  Mrs.  Carr-Wynstede  at  the 
Brunswick  Hotel  on  Monday,  be  presented  to  the 
daughter,  and  bear  her  away  with  me  to  lunch.  See 
how  I  love  you  !  —  a  call  on  strangers  at  high  noon,  for 
me,  who  hate  both  strangers  and  high  noon,  and  a  long 
journey  by  rail  of  nearly  two  hours  ;  all  in  one  day  ! 
["  '  Nearly  two  hours '  !  Hear  her  ! "  said  Margaret,  "  and 
by  the  '  Flying  Dude  '  ! "]  Nevertheless,  it  shall  be  done. 
So  expect  us  by  the  afternoon  train.  I  have  no  idea 
where  I  am  going,  nor  how  we  get  there ;  but  Tom 
knows,  and  he  will  engineer  us.  The  children  are  both 
away,  —  Dick  in  the  Adirondacks,  with  some,  of  his 
"  fellows,"  and  your  namesake,  Peggy,  Tom  took  to  his 
mother's,  at  Oaklands,  yesterday.  As  she  went  away  she 
said,  "  I  wish  I  were  going  with  you  to  aunty,  mamma  ; 


A   Week  away  from   Time.          35 

grandma  is  very  nice  and  kind,  but  she  is  n't  aunty  — 
nobody  is ! "  I  shall  not  bring  my  maid,  thanks,  for  I 
am  sure  your  Susan  will  do  all  I  want  for  me  (you 
say  Miss  C.-W.  takes  a  French  maid  with  her),  but  I 
will  bring  Joujou,  if  you  don't  mind.  He  would  die  of 
grief  if  he  were  left  behind,  and  so  should  I.  By  the 
bye,  Charlie  Wyatt  came  to  see  us  last  evening.  He 
says  his  yacht,  the  "  Hope,"  is  not  laid  up  yet,  and  that 
he  shall  take  her  round  to  Fair  Harbor  and  put  her 
and  himself  at  your  service.  I  said  it  must  be  too  cold 
to  sail  (and  at  any  rate  nothing  would  drag  me  on 
board  a  boat,  you  know),  but  he  said,  "  Too  cold  at  the 
Cape  !  The  first  week  in  October  !  Oh  dear  !  no.  It 
will  be  perfect  sailing  weather,  and  a  full  moon  !  "  He 
has  the  Cape  madness  as  badly  as  you  and  Ralph,  so  I 
did  n't  discuss  with  him.  He  looked  bored,  and  twirled 
his  long  golden  moustache  a  good  deal  (I  declare  he 
is  handsomer  than  ever)  when  I  told  him  of  Miss 
C.-W. ;  and  I  tried  to  cheer  him  by  saying  perhaps  she 
didn't  like  yachting  any  better  than  I.  "They  do, 
they  all  like  it !  "  said  he  gloomily.  "  Look  at  Lady 
Brassey  !  I  dare  say  this  one  will  be  taking  the  helm 
and  ordering  my  men  about.  But  to  please  dear  Mrs. 
Temple  I  would  take  Queen  Victoria  herself  on  a 
cruise  !  "  He  certainly  could  n't  say  fairer  than  that, 


36          A   Week  away  from   Time. 

could  he?     Till  Monday  afternoon,  then,  and  with 
love  from  Tom,          Your  sister, 

BELL  BOWDOIN. 

P.  S.  I  was  going  to  take  down  quantities  of  eatables, 
— pates  defoie  gras  and  French  canned  things,  —  but 
Tom  says  you'd  be  insulted  ;  that  you  disapprove  oifoie 
gras  on  humane  grounds,  because  it  hurts  the  geese,  — 
not  the  geese  who  eat,  but  those  who  are  eaten,  — 
and  that  you  are  not  camping  out  on  a  desert  island. 
Still,  I  notice  he  has  a  hamper  of  pears  and  hot-house 
grapes  in  the  hall  addressed  to  you.  I  suppose  even 
you  will  acknowledge  that  there  are  neither  vines  nor 
fig-trees  in  your  Paradise.  And  yet,  I  am  not  so 
sure. 

P.  S.  2d.  So  you  really  mean  to  put  us  all  under 
contribution  for  something  to  amuse  our  evenings  ! 
Tom  vows  he  never  wrote  anything  in  his  life  but 
checks  to  pay  my  bills.  As  for  me,  I  have  had  no 
time  at  Mount  Desert  for  anything  so  serious  as  writing 
a  story.  But  perhaps  I  may  cudgel  my  brains  one  day 
down  there  while  you  are  all  out  in  that  dreadful  boat, 
and  beat  up  a  trifle  of  some  sort.  We  shall  see. 

"  I  am  sorry  Tom  discouraged  Bell's  good  in 
tentions  in  the  commissariat  department,"  said 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          37 

Ralph.  "  I  have  a  tremendous  appetite,  having 
positively  eaten  nothing  in  New  York  for 
weeks.  This  air  makes  one  ravenous.  I  think 
I  devoured  a  bushel  of  oysters  at  luncheon. 
You  Ye  got  a  capital  cook,  Margaret.  Is  she 
a  native?  " 

"  No,"  said  Margaret.  "  Don't  tell  Bell  and 
Tom  ;  they  will  laugh  at  me.  You  know  how  I 
have  always  praised  the  cooking  here ;  and  cer 
tainly  when  I  have  been  at  Captain  Nye's,  and 
dear  Mrs.  Nye  superintended  everything,  it  left 
nothing  to  be  desired.  She  used  to  get  what 
she  called  an  '  abrigoine '  from  Marshpee  to  help 
her,  you  know;  and  somehow  when  the  Red 
Indian  was  under  her  influence  she  did  excel 
lently  well.  But  I  have  not  been  fortunate  in 
my  experiences  with  the  original  owners  of  the 
soil ;  I  got  one  from  Marshpee  when  I  first  came 
to  the  White  House  in  September.  She  was 
really  a  very  good  cook,  and  I  thought  we 
should  never  part." 

"Well,  what  happened?  Did  her  proud  spirit 
refuse  to  accept  a  hireling's  pay,  or  did  you 
send  her  for  a  scholarship  to  Hampton?" 


38          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"Neither,"  replied  Margaret  laughing.  "But 
the  first  time  I  paid  her  her  wages  she  de 
parted,  going  back  to  her  native  wigwam,  and,  I 
regret  to  say,  taking  all  the  week's  family  wash 
with  her.  I  forbore  to  prosecute  her,  in  view 
of  the  wrongs  of  the  Indian  race.  So  I  called 
it  quits  —  got  some  more  table  linen,  and  a 
cook  from  Boston.  But  it  is  time  for  you  to 
drive  to  the  station.  I  told  Bell  to  get  out  at 
Wood's  Holl  rather  than  Falmouth,  the  drive 
thence  is  so  pretty.  Tell  David  to  put  the 
bays  into  the  beach-wagon  for  you,  and  he  can 
go  himself  for  Miss  Carr-Wynstede's  maid.  I 
do  feel  a  little  nervous  about  the  French  maid, 
I  confess.  I  am  afraid  we  shan't  be  able  to 
amuse  her.  Let  Erin  run  along  with  you  and 
be  introduced  to  his  cousin  Joujou." 

Ralph  sighed  deeply.  "  We  were  so  happy 
here,  —  we  two!"  he  said.  "When  I  think  of 
our  Arcadia  being  invaded  by  unsympathetic 
relatives  (unsympathetic  to  the  beauties  of  Fair 
Harbor,  I  mean)  and  by  the  British  female,  - 
when  I  think  that  we  are  all  expected  to  write 
stories  and  read  them  aloud  of  evenings  just  as 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          39 

they  do  in  books,  but  never  in  real  life  that  I 
ever  heard  of,  —  it  really  does  seem,  Margaret, 
like  voluntarily  introducing  the  serpent  into  our 
Eden,  and  I  only  hope  he  will  not  turn  and 
rend  us!  How  many  shall  we  be  in  all?" 

"  With  Mr.  Wyatt,  whom  I  count  as  a  guest, 
and  to  whom  I  have  sent  word  that  he  must 
bring  a  story,  —  poor  fellow! — we  shall  be 
six,"  said  Margaret. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  be  seven 
and  done  with  it?  It  is  a  magic  number,  and 
besides,  it  just  fills  out  the  days  of  the  \veek. 
Whom  else  shall  we  have?  Did  you  know  that 
Philip  Kirkland  had  got  home  from  Europe  — 
Japan — India  —  Heaven  knows  where?  I  met 
him  in  Boston  the  day  I  came  down  here.  He 
asked  for  you,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  him  then 
to  take  the  train  and  come  and  see  how  you 
are,  but  I  did  n't  quite  know.  How  long  is 
it  since  you  saw  him?" 

Margaret  had  risen  while  Ralph  was  speak 
ing,  and  walked  to  the  open  window,  where  she 
stood  breaking  off  branches  of  pink  and  white 
honeysuckle  from  a  vine  which  grew  from  the 


40          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

porch  across  the  casement,  in  a  quick,  nervous 
way.  She  answered  her  brother  without  turn 
ing  her  head. 

"  How  long?  I  don't  quite  remember.  It  is 
several  years.  We  were  in  Rome,  you  know." 

"Why  don't  you  send  for  him?"  said  Ralph 
cheerfully.  "  He  is  out  and  out  the  most  in 
teresting  man  I  know,  and  no  end  of  a  good 
fellow.  Write  a  line  now,  asking-  him  to  come 
down  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  I  '11  take  it  to 
the  mail  myself.  I  will  go  to  the  stable  and 
come  back  for  your  note.  He  can  telegraph 
his  answer."  And  he  left  the  house  and  was  out 
of  sight  before  Margaret  turned  round.  When 
she  did,  her  face  was  flushed  and  her  eyes  were 
shining  with  some  unwonted  emotion. 

"  How  foolish  I  am  !  "  she  said  aloud.  "  I  am 
sure  he  has  forgotten.  I  dare  say  I  imagined  it 
then.  Is  it  all  because  of  that  dream  of  mine 
in  the  woods  last  spring?  Shall  I  be  governed 
by  a  dream  of  the  springtime,  —  I,  for  whom  it 
is  no  longer  spring?  No.  I  will  ask  him,  and 
we  shall  meet  like  any  other  good  friends  who 
have  not  met  for  years  and  who  sincerely  like 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          41 

each  other.     I  dare  say  he  won't  even  care  to 
come,  he  has  been  at  home  so  little  while." 

When  Ralph  returned,  driving  the  bays  to 
the  door,  Margaret  stood  in  the  porch,  the  note 
in  her  hand  and  the  flush  faded  from  her  cheek. 
When  he  had  gone,  she  took  her  scissors  and 
went  into  the  garden  to  cut  fresh  flowTers  for  her 
guests'  bedrooms,  singing  to  herself,  — 

"  What 's  the  way  to  Arcady,  —  to  Arcady  ?  " 


Italy,  my  Italy  ! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me  ;  — 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 

Graved  inside  of  it,  "Italy." 
Suck  lovers  of  old  are  I  and  she  — 
So  it  always  was,  so  it  still  shall  be. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


EVENING   OF   FIRST   DAY. 

"  IT  is  really  very  nice  here,  —  far  nicer  than 
I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin.  "  You  never 
told  me  how  beautiful  the  view  is  coming  from 
Wood's  Roll,  where  one  looks  down  upon  Buz 
zard's  Bay  on  one  side  and  Vineyard  Sound  on 
the  other,  and  upon  those  miles  and  miles  of 
rolling  wooded  country." 

<w  I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times,"  said 
Margaret. 

"  And  why  did  you  never  say  how  enchanting 
the  little  harbor  is  when  one  turns  the  corner 
of  the  lane  yonder  and  comes  upon  it  so  un 
expectedly?  I  fairly  screamed  with  delight." 

"  I  have  said  it  constantly  for  years,"  replied 
Margaret. 

"  As  to  the  air,  —  and  I  confess  I  have  heard 
you  speak  of  the  air,  —  I  never  felt  anything 
so  delicious.  It  is  as  soft  as  Newport,  with  a 
hundred  times  more  snap  to  it.  It  has  quite 


46          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

gone  to  my  head.  And  the  house,"  she  went 
on  as  Margaret  showed  her  upstairs  to  her 
room,  —  "  how  charming  it  is,  with  the  big  hall, 
and  the  white  wainscoting,  and  the  wide  stair 
case  with  carved  balusters,  and  this  landing 
with  a  window-seat,  and  such  a  lovely  view ! 
And  oh,  Margaret,  what  big,  sunny,  cheerful 
rooms  !  You  could  n't  have  had  anything  better 
if  you  had  built  it  yourself." 

"  Nothing  half  as  good,"  said  Margaret,  "  for 
this  was  built  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago." 

Presently,  when  the  brothers  and  sisters  were 
sitting  together  in  the  large,  comfortable  room 
on  the  right  of  the  hall  door  which  Margaret 
had  made  into  her  library,  waiting  for  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede  to  come  downstairs  to  afternoon  tea, 
"  Well,  how  did  you  find  her?  What  do  you 
think  of  her?  "  asked  Margaret  eagerly,  turning 
first  to  one  and  then  to  the  other.  "  She  is 
certainly  very  handsome ;  that  I  could  see  for 
myself." 

"  I  know  Tom  and  Ralph  are  just  dying  to 
speak,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin,  "  but  I  insist  upon 
the  floor." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          47 

"  As  if  she  did  n't  always  have  the  floor !  " 
said  her  husband.  "  I  am  not  even  allowed  in 
the  chair  to  keep  order.  However,  I  have  my 
views  of  the  young  lady,  which  I  shall  take  a 
grim  pleasure  in  keeping  to  myself." 

"  You  may  as  well,"  retorted  his  wife.  "  They 
will  be  of  no  benefit  to  any  one  else.  You 
were  n't  at  home  at  lunch,  and  you  passed  your 
time  on  the  way  down  in  the  smoking-car, 
shamelessly,  with  your  boon  companions  from 
those  two  dens  of  crime  up  the  Bay,  the  Monu 
mental  and  Forefathers  Clubs.  And  you  and 
Ralph  hardly  addressed  a  word  to  either  Miss 
Carr-Wynstede  or  me  on  the  drive  here.  I  am 
the  only  person  who  can  tell  you  anything 
about  her." 

"  I  am  waiting,"  said  Margaret.  "  But  be 
quick,  for  she  will  be  coming  down  soon.  I  left 
Susan  struggling  to  make  Marie  understand  the 
lay  of  the  land  upstairs.  Miss  Carr-Wynstede 
told  me  Marie  was  very  anxious  to  learn  Eng 
lish,  so  I  did  n't  attempt  to  interpret  for  her. 
Go  on,  Bell." 

"  To   begin  with,    then,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin, 


48          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  must  we  always  call  her  by  her  two  names? 
It  is  such  a  bore,  and  takes  so  long.  One  can 
abbreviate  in  writing,  but  one  can't  call  her  Miss 
C.-W.  to  her  face.  Why  will  English  people  be 
so  absurd  ?  Life  is  not  long  enough  for  hyphens. 
What  is  her  Christian  name,  I  wonder?  " 

"  Muriel,"  said  Mrs.  Temple.  "  She  sent  me  a 
charming  note  in  answer  to  my  invitation  (for 
I  wrote  to  her  separately  when  I  learned  that 
her  parents  could  not  come),  and  it  was  signed 
'  Muriel.'  " 

"  How  English,  to  be  sure !  Such  an  out- 
of-the-way  name !  But  I  must  say  I  like  it. 
It  is  my  only  reason  for  regretting  that  I  was 
not  born  English;  then  I  might  have  been 
Gwendolyn,  or  Gladys,  or  Iseult  Don't  smile 
in  that  aggravating  way,  Tom  !  I  feel  just  like 
Iseult.  Very  well,"  she  continued ;  "  I  went 
to  the  Brunswick  and  paid  my  call  on  the 
father  and  mother.  They  were  very  nice,  I 
must  say,  Margaret,  and  they  said  charming 
things  of  you,  and  how  much  they  cared  for 
you.  And  as  we  were  talking,  and  they  were 
saying  how  sorry  they  were  their  engagements 


A.  Week  away  from  Time.          49 

prevented  their  passing  the  week  with  you,  and 
how  glad  they  were  to  confide  their  daughter  to 
my  care,  and  all  that,  the  young  lady  herself 
came  into  the  room.  I  confess  I  was  unpre 
pared  for  such  beauty ;  she  really  is  exquisitely 
lovely.  I  took  her  home  with  me,  and  we  got 
on  very  well.  She  did  n't  talk  much ;  I  can't 
tell  if  it  is  shyness,  or  want  of  anything  to  say." 

"  I  think  I  could  explain  it,"  remarked  Mr. 
Bowdoin  dryly ;  "  it  is  for  the  same  reason  that 
I  am  a  small  talker  at  home.  One  thing  I  will 
reveal ;  when  the  young  lady  got  out  of  the 
wagon  just  now,  I  saw  an  uncommonly  pretty 
little  foot,  which  was  more  —  or  rather  less  — 
than  I  expected.  Did  you  notice  it,  Ralph?  " 

"  And  what  a  beautiful  voice  she  has !  "  ex 
claimed  Margaret,  —  "  low  and  sweet  and  clear. 
I  could  fall  in  love  with  a  voice  like  that  if  I 
were  a  man." 

"  It  seems  to  be  the  classical  voice  with  noth 
ing  beside,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,"  said 
Ralph.  "  You  have  spent  the  day  with  the  girl, 
Bell,  and  you  have  told  us  nothing  about  her 
except  that  she  is  good-looking,  which  we  can 

4 


50          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

see  for  ourselves.  I  don't  believe  there  is  much 
to  tell.  I  believe  I  know  just  what  sort  of  person 
she  is :  she  rides  and  hunts  and  plays  lawn 
tennis.  Oh,  yes,  of  course  she  plays  lawn  ten 
nis  !  I  am  so  thankful  Margaret  has  no  tennis- 
court.  Don't  pray  be  having  one  marked  out 
in  the  sand  on  the  beach !  Let  her  see  that 
there  is  one  spot  on  the  earth  where  sensible 
people  can  get  along  without  that  assertive  and 
all-pervading  game.  And  she  takes  long  walks, 
and  cares  more  for  horses  and  dogs  than  for 
any  human  being;  and  when  she  wants  to  ex 
press  the  highest  praise  of  any  one,  she  calls 
him  or  her  '  doggy ' !  WJiy  Margaret  insisted 
upon  asking  her !  It 's  going  to  be  a  horrid 
nuisance." 

At  this  moment  a  rustle  was  heard  on  the 
stairs,  and  in  another  the  English  girl  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  library.  There  was  one  awk 
ward  moment,  for  the  whole  party  felt  guilty 
and  ashamed  of  themselves  to  have  been  dis 
cussing  their  guest  so  freely,  and  then  Mrs. 
Temple  went  forward  and  took  her  hand  and 
spoke  in  her  own  cordial,  sweet  way,  which 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          5 1 

always  made  strangers  feel  quite  at  home 
directly. 

"  When  we  have  had  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said, 
"  if  you  are  not  too  tired  we  will  walk  toward 
the  headlands  yonder  and  see  the  sun  set  over 
the  water ;  that  is  what  one  cannot  often  witness 
on  our  eastern  coast." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  in  the  least  tired,"  said 
Miss  Carr-\Vynstede,  "  and  I  meant  to  ask  if  I 
might  take  a  walk.  But  please  don't  trouble 
yourself  to  come  with  me.  I  'd  much  rather  find 
my  way  alone,  if  I  may  take  your  handsome  set 
ter  with  me.  Oh,  I  don't  really  mean  that  I  'd 
rather  go  alone,  you  know,  only  —  I  thought  — 
I  — "  And  the  poor  girl  flushed  crimson,  and 
looked  so  troubled  that  Margaret  pitied  her. 

"  Hullo  !  "  cried  out  Mr.  Bowdoin,  who  was 
standing  at  the  hall  door  looking  out,  —  "  Hullo  ! 
here  's  a  yacht  coming  into  the  harbor,  a  sloop. 
\  truly  believe  it  is  the  '  Hope.'  Wyatt  has 
been  as  good  as  his  word.  Now,  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede,  you  will  see  our  handsome  man,  our 
Antinous,  our  champion  '  masher ; '  and  the  queer 
part  of  it  is,  he  's  an  awfully  good  fellow." 


52          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Let  us  all  go  down  to  the  pier  to  see  the 
'Hope'  come  in,"  said  Margaret;  "and  you 
shall  have  Erin  for  your  special  escort,  my 
dear,"  turning  to  Muriel  with  a  charming  smile. 

Mrs.  Bowdoin  said  she  could  see  both  the 
sunset  and  the  yacht  very  well  from  the  porch. 
Margaret  and  Mr.  Bowdoin  walked  together,  so 
Ralph  was  obliged  to  be  the  English  girl's  com 
panion;  but  he  was  really  quite  embarrassed 
and  awkward,  for  he  felt  that  she  had  probably 
heard  what  he  was  saying  when  she  came  down 
stairs.  So  they  walked  silently  through  the 
garden,  sweet  with  the  scent  of  late  roses,  helio 
trope,  and  mignonette  ;  along  the  path  cut 
through  a  tangle  of  golden-rod,  bayberry,  grape 
vines,  and  purple  asters,  till  they  came  down  to 
the  wharf  just  as  the  "  Hope  "  reached  moor 
ings  and  the  gig  was  pushing  off  with  her 
handsome  captain.  He  raised  his  cap  in  answer 
to  waving  handkerchiefs,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  had  shaken  hands  heartily  with  his  friends 
and  had  been  presented  to  Miss  Carr-Wynstede. 
Mr.  Bowdoin  had  spoken  truly;  he  really  was 
as  handsome  as  it  is  given  to  man  to  be.  The 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          5  3 

sun  and  the  sea-air  had  tanned  his  almost  too 
fair  skin  to  a  rich  brown,  and  as  he  stood 
with  his  yachtsman's  cap  in  his  hand,  in  his 
yachtsman's  dress,  more  than  six  feet  of  broad- 
shouldered  vigorous  manhood,  his  yellow  mous 
tache  glowing  in  the  setting  sun's  rays  with  every 
shade  of  tawny  gold,  his  blue  eyes,  —  blue  as 
violets  are  blue,  —  sometimes  rather  sleepy,  and 
half  veiled  by  heavy  lashes,  but  now  lighted 
with  honest,  frank  pleasure,  Charlie  Wyatt  was 
the  very  picture  of  a  sun-god  in  uniform. 

"  Here  I  am,  dear  Mrs.  Temple,  and  here  is 

my  boat;   and  both  are  yours,  to  use  or  abuse, 

as  pleases  you.     You   must  look  upon  us  as  a 

part  of  your  establishment,  but  you  must  never 

"let  either  of  us  bore  you." 

"  I  want  to  see  Captain  Nye  about  a  new 
centre-board  for  your  cat-boat,  Margaret,"  said 
Ralph.  "  I  '11  be  at  home  in  time  to  dress  for 
dinner." 

So  when  the  party  went  back  to  the  house, 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun  fell  upon  Wyatt  walk 
ing  by  Miss  Carr-Wynstede,  looking  down  into 
her  face  with  those  blue  eyes  which  he  had 


54          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

found  very  troublesome  many  times  in  his  life, 
so  much  more  had  been  understood  from  them 
than  he  had  ever  intended  to  convey.  Marga 
ret  whispered  to  her  brother-in-law,  "  Oh,  dear ! 
I  hope  she  won't  go  to  falling  in  love  with 
him  and  breaking  her  heart.  I  wish  he  were  n't 
so  ridiculously  handsome ;  and  he  's  as  unsus 
ceptible  as  he  is  beautiful." 

After  dinner,  when  the  men  had  had  their 
cigarettes  and  the  ladies  had  sat  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  broad  porch  giving  themselves  up 
to  enjoyment  of  the  moonlight  and  the  soft, 
odor-laden  air  as  it  came  from  the  sea  across  the 
flowers,  Margaret  said,  "  It  is  really  too  bad  to 
go  into  the  house  and  leave  all  this  loveliness ; 
but  I  mean  to  be  stern  about  this  thing,  and  we 
must  begin  to-night,  or  we  never  shall.  I  shall 
set  you  a  good  example,  but  this  evening's 
entertainment  will  be  a  mild  one.  I  shall  read 
you  a  letter  I  have  lately  received  from  my  dear 
friend  Mr.  Johns,  who  is  in  Italy.  It  is  about 
Beatrice  Bernardi,  the  peasant  Improvisatrice, 
whom  we  know  of  through  the  '  Roadside  Songs 
of  Tuscany,'  of  '  Francesca,'  which  have  been 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          55 

edited  and  so  greatly  admired  by  Mr.  Ruskin. 
The  letter  describes  a  visit  paid  to  Beatrice  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Johns." 

"  It  is  a  shame  to  go  in,"  said  Wyatt,  in  a  low 
voice  to  Miss  Carr-Wynstede.  "  One  does  n't 
have  many  evenings  like  this,  even  at  Fair 
Harbor." 

Just  then  a  figure  appeared  at  the  open  win 
dow  of  a  room  above  where  they  stood. 

"  Oh,  Marie,  don't  close  the  shutters,  please  !  " 
said  Miss  Carr-Wynstede.  "*I  like  to  have  the 
moonlight  in  my  room." 

"  Is  that  your  room?"  asked  Wyatt.  "Then 
when  you  see  the  '  Hope's  '  light  shining  yonder, 
won't  you  think  that  it  is  burning  for  you,  and 
keeping  watch  for  you  while  you  sleep?" 

When  the  company  had  seated  themselves  in 
the  library  to  their  satisfaction,  Wyatt  securing 
to  himself  a  chair  behind  Miss  Carr-Wynstede, 
Margaret  began :  - 

CUTIGLIANO,  APPENNINO  PISTOJESE,  Aug.  15,  188-. 
MY  DEAR  MARGARET,  —  E.  and   I  went  to-day  to 
see  Beatrice.     Beatrice  Bernardi  is  the  most  remark- 


56          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

able  of  the  Improvisator!,  male  or  female,  who  have 
been  in  Italy  during  the  last  sixty  years.  She  was 
born  in  the  neighborhood  of  Cutigliano  about  eighty 
years  ago.  Her  parents  were  poor,  as  are  all  the  peas 
ants  of  these  mountains.  She  had  no  instruction,  and 
to-day  does  not  know  how  to  read  or  write ;  but  she 
always  delighted  in  Nature,  and  used  to  sing  to  herself 
about  the  flowers  and  the  trees  and  the  sunlight  and 
the  sky  as  she  tended  the  sheep  or  worked  in  the 
fields  or  gathered  the  chestnuts.  At  twenty  she  mar 
ried,  and  the  first  "ottava"1  she  ever  sang  (her  first 
improvisation)  as  it  were  aloud,  was  to  her  husband  on 
their  wedding-day.  Here  in  their  mountains,  which 
the  poet  Tommaseo  calls  "  the  most  poetic  place  in  the 
poetic  Tuscan  land,''  poetry  is  to  these  poor  mountain 
eers  a  necessity,  and  the  fame  of  Beatrice  soon  spread. 
From  that  time  forward  she  sang  constantly,  and  with 
such  effect  that  her  fame  was  carried  all  abroad,  so  that 
she  was  sent  for  by  rich  and  distinguished  persons  to 
sing  for  them,  and  among  the  people  she  always  col 
lected  a  great  crowd  whenever  she  sang.  Thus  she 
went  to  Bologna,  Pistoja,  and  Florence.  Manzoni  sent 

1  An  "  ottava  "  is  a  poetical  stanza  of  eight  verses  of  eleven 
syllables,  of  which  the  first  six  rhyme  alternately  and  the  last 
two  rhyme  with  each  other. 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          c  7 

for  her  to  come  to  Milan  to  see  him,  but  died  before 
she  could  start.  Tommaseo  and  Giuliani  went  to  see 
her  frequently,  and  the  former  began  his  collection  of 
popular  poesy  by  songs  taken  from  her  lips.  "  Here, 
for  the  first  time,"  says  "he,  "I  felt  the  popular  poesy 
revealed  to  me  by  Beatrice  on  the  mountains,  in  its 
modest  beauty,  opening  for  me  a  new  life ;  whence 
the  Lima  is  more  memorable  to  me  than  the  Arno." 

And  so  her  fame  increased,  and  she  went  from  place 
to  place  singing,  always  to  the  enthusiastic  delight  of 
hundreds.  When  she  once  warmed  up,  she  could  go 
on  singing  for  hours.  "  I  could  sing  all  day  long,  and 
all  night  too,  when  I  was  young,"  she  told  us.  Other 
Improvisator!  challenged  her,  and  many  were  the  tourna- ' 
ments ;  but  she  defeated  them  all,  and  put  many  vain 
ones  to  shame,  so  that  finally  all  acknowledged  her 
supremacy.  Meanwhile  she  became  the  mother  of 
ten  children,  of  whom  five  are  dead,  as  is  her  husband. 
She  has  always  retained  her  mountain  home,  and  there 
she  lives,  with  two  of  her  sons  and  their  families,  the 
life  of  a  peasant,  —  this  woman  who  has  known  most 
of  the  distinguished  literary  men  of  Italy  of  her  day. 
Although  eighty  years  old,  she  still  walks  over  the 
stony  paths  of  the  mountain  to  Cutigliano,  three  hours 
away.  Many  strangers  go  to  see  her,  and  she  is  the 
great  personage  of  "  the  Mountain." 


58          A  Week  azvay  from   Time. 

So  E.  and  I  went  to  see  Beatrice.  E.  went  on  a 
donkey  —  or  thought  she  did  —  and  I  walked.  The 
donkey  was  small  and  of  much  character.  Her  name 
was  Margherita,  in  compliment  to  Italy's  attractive  and 
beloved  queen.  This  donkey  had  two  devilish  pro 
clivities  :  one  was  an  almost  invincible  indisposition  to 
be  mounted ;  the  other,  a  strong  objection  to  going 
when  she  was  mounted.  She  also  had  a  way  of  puff 
ing  herself  out  while  the  saddle  was  being  girthed,  and 
of  drawing  herself  in  at  different  points  on  the  road,  so 
that  the  very  ugly  and  very  awkward  saddle  was  slip 
ping  round  most  frequently  and  inopportunely.  This 
gave  my  beloved  companion  the  privilege  of  walking 
'one  half  or  more  of  the  way.  to  the  evident  satisfac 
tion  of  the  female  owner  of  the  donkey,  our  guide,  who 
looked  as  if  she  thought  stout  strangers  ought  to  carry 
small  donkeys,  and  pay  well  for  the  chance  ;  for  on 
the  plea  that  she  had  had  twelve  children,  seven  of 
whom  were  dead,  this  person  had,  of  course,  extracted 
from  my  companion  the  promise  to  pay  double  the 
usual  price,  and  her  only  object  now  was  to  get  through 
the  job  with  as  little  fatigue  and  inconvenience  to  the 
donkey  as  possible.  So  our  ears  were  regaled  with 
accounts  of  the  fondness  of  the  children  (living  and 
dead)  for  Margherita ;  of  the  beauty  and  delicacy  of 
her  feet,  and  of  her  dislike  of  stony  roads  (now,  all 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          59 

roads  in  this  part  of  the  country  are  stony,  and  this 
road  the  stoniest  I  ever  saw  out  of  Palestine)  ;  of  our 
good  fortune  in  having  secured  the  donkey,  which  two 
foreign  parties  had  sought  in  vain  to  do  after  we  had 
hired  her ;  with  no  end  of  more  lies,  which  E.  thought 
all  right  because  the  woman  had  chosen  to  have 
twelve  children  and  had  lost  seven  of  them.  I  con 
fess  to  much  ill-humor  in  being  kept  back  by  this 
lazy  beast,  who  should  have  been  well  thrashed ;  but 
the  delay  was  of  no  account,  for  had  not  her  owner 
had  twelve  children,  and  seven  of  them  were  dead, 
and  they  were  all  fond  of  the  donkey?  Men  are 
brutes ;  and  women  —  well,  some  are  tender-hearted 
and  some  cunning.  The  road  climbs  the  side  of  the 
mountain  to  Pian  degli  Ontani  under  the  chestnut-trees. 
Far  belo\v  rushes  the  Sestajone,  just  about  to  join  the 
Lima,  over  its  torrent  bed,  making  gleams  of  silver  and 
white  through  the  sparkling  leaves  of  the  chestnuts. 
At  intervals  little  clear  brooks  cross  the  stony  path, 
hurrying  down  to  join  the  larger  stream  ;  and  every  now 
and  then  we  came  to  the  smothering,  smoking,  black- 
brown  piles  in  which  the  charcoal  was  being  burned, 
and  which  gave  out  strong  odors  of  pyroligneous  acid. 
Just  before  we  arrived  at  Pian  degli  Ontani  —  a  vil 
lage  of  a  church  and  about  twenty  houses  —  we  came 
to  a  little  pool  of  clear  bright  water,  so  small  that  it 


60          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

could  scarcely  have  harbored  a  dozen  ducks.  It  was 
shaded  by  great  chestnut-trees,  and  was  quite  a  pretty 
spot.  "  See  that  tiny,  lovely,  bright  little  water,"  said 
our  guide  in  those  caressing  diminutives  in  which  the 
Italian  language  abounds.  "  There  a  '  bella  sposina  ' 
(a  pretty  little  wife)  drowned  herself  a  few  months 
ago.  She  was  only  twenty-two,  and  left  a  little  one 
only  a  few  months  old." 
"But  why?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  not  happy.  Her  mother  had  made 
her  marry  a  young  man  whom  she  did  not  love.  She 
told  her  mother  she  would  drown  herself  some  day. 
She  had  been  married  only  two  years." 

"Did  she  love  some  one  else?"  asked  we,  with  that 
universal  idea  that  if  a  woman  does  n't  love  one  man 
she  must  love  another. 

"  Oh,  no  !     She  did  not  love  any  one  else." 
"  Was  the  husband  old,  or  cross,  or  violent?  " 
"  Oh,  no  !     He  was  young.     He  had  been  in  love 
with  her  for  years.     Nobody  could  tell  why  she  did 
it.     She  told  her  mother  she  would  do  it  some  day. 
Her  husband  got  up  early  in  the  morning  to  go  to  his 
charcoal-burning,  and  soon  after  she  got  up,  and  in 
her  night-clothes,  with  only  a  petticoat  on,  she  left  her 
baby  on  the  bed ;  she  went  down  there,  and  kept  her 
head  under  the  water  until  she  was  dead." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          6 1 

"But  she  must  have  been  'pazza'  (crazy)." 

"  No,  she  was  not  '  pazza.'  She  always  told  her 
mother  she  would  do  it.  Poor  sposina  !  Yes  —  she 
left  her  baby  on  the  bed  and  went  there  and  drowned 
herself."  As  we  went  through  the  village,  there  were 
three  men  lounging  by  the  fountain  in  that  easy  way 
in  which  Italian  peasants  always  astonish  us  by  their 
grace.  After  we  had  passed  them,  our  guide  said,  — 

"  Did  you  see  that  young  man  nearest  to  the  foun 
tain  ?  He  was  the  husband,  '  poverino  ! '  Yes,  he  was 
the  husband." 

He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow.  Had  she  told 
us  that  some  romantic  girl  had  drowned  herself  because 
he  would  not  marry  her,  we  should  have  been  less 
surprised. 

"  Speriamo  !  Let  us  hope  that  he  and  the  mother- 
in-law  may  be  able  to  console  each  other  !  "  said  the 
mother  of  twelve  children. 

From  Pian  degli  Ontani  to  Pian  di  Novello,  where 
Beatrice  now  lives,  the  road  still  mounts,  although  not 
quite  so  rapidly.  The  chestnuts  became  mingled  with 
beeches  —  curiously  twisted  old  beeches  —  and  young 
birches  with  bright  fresh  leaves  and  silver  trunks 
with  dark  patches  on  them.  The  steep  mountain 
sides  were  in  many  places  covered  with  them,  in 
others  bare  and  stony,  with  great  chasms  worn  by 


62  A  Week  away  from   Time. 

rushing  rains.  In  the  distance  the  peaks  were  shining 
in  the  sunlight  with  beautiful  variety  of  color,  throwing 
off  the  light  instead  of  absorbing  it,  as  in  painting  on 
porcelain.  Wild  flowers  and  delicate  heather  abounded, 
and  little  patches  of  yellow  grain  on  terraces  gilded  the 
landscape.  Down  below,  by  the  side  of  the  fast  run 
ning  stream,  was  a  group  of  mill-buildings,  and  the 
sound  of  the  clapper  and  of  barking  dogs  mounted 
up  to  us.  And  so  on  for  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half 
after  we  had  left  Pian  degli  Ontani.  At  last  we  arrived 
before  the  little  stone  house  shaded  by  a  tall  cherry- 
tree.  There  was  a  stable  close  by,  and  piled  around 
it  were  sheaves  of  yellow  grain  just  brought  in  from 
the  terraced  fields.  Two  young  women,  her  daughters- 
in-law,  met  us  at  the  door,  and  in  an  instant  appeared 
on  the  threshold  Beatrice  herself,  with  as  many  affec 
tionate  greetings  as  if  we  had  been  old  friends  and 
she  had  been  expecting  us  for  months.  "  Why,  how 
do  their  worships  do?  I  am  so  glad  to  see  them  ! 
Come  in,  come  in.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  them  !  Let 
them  take  the  trouble  to  sit  down.  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  them  !  " 

We  sat  down  and  looked  at  her.  The  first  thing 
that  struck  us  was  the  wonderful  brightness  of  her  hand 
some  eyes,  the  refinement  of  her  looks  and  motions 
and  manners.  She  is  a  very  handsome  old  woman,  — 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          63 

a  handsome  brow,  beautiful  eyes,  delicate  nose,  wetf- 
formed  and  expressive  mouth  ;  none  of  the  coarseness 
which  one  might  expect  in  an  old  peasant  who  had 
spent  her  life  in  the  Apennine  Mountains,  worked 
hard,  and  lived  principally  on  chestnuts.  None  of  the 
photographs  I  have  seen  of  her  do  her  any  justice.  It 
is  difficult  to  recall  everything  she  said,  and  impossible 
to  recall  it  as  she  said  it.  E.  had  brought  her  some 
kerchiefs  such  as  the  peasants  wear  on  their  heads  and 
shoulders ;  one  of  silk,  two  of  cotton,  and  a  warmer 
one  of  wool, —  inexpensive  trifles,  but  of  bright,  gay 
colors.  She  thanked  us  with  warmth,  but  did  not  open 
them,  nor  show  any  vulgar  curiosity,  but  sat  with  them 
folded  on  her  lap  during  our  visit.  She  talked  con 
stantly.  Her  voice  was  very  pleasing.  She  told  us  of 
the  people  who  had  come  to  see  her,  of  the  illustrious 
literary  men  she  had  known,  of  the  places  she  had 
visited.  She  had  been  to  Florence,  to  Bologna  and 
Pistoja,  and  to  many  other  cities.  And  she  had  been 
all  over  the  mountains,  yes,  all  over.  A  beautiful 
countess  from  Venice  had  been  to  see  her  and  had 
told  her  all  about  that  city  of  the  sea.  People  had 
come  from  England,  and  even  America.  She  had  been 
sent  for  by  Manzoni,  and  was  to  have  gone  to  Milan, 
—  yes,  all  the  way  to  Milan,  —  when  he  died,  "  povero  ! " 
and  she  did  not  go.  Had  we  ever  heard  of  Manzoni  ? 


64          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

\ 

He  was  a  famous  writer.  She  did  not  read  herself, 
nor  write,  but  people  read  to  her.  Had  we  heard  of 
Manzoni?  "  Oh  !  yes,  we  had  heard  of  him." 

"  Davvero  !  (indeed  !)  "  Well,  she  was  to  have 
gone  to  see  him,  at  his  request,  and  he  died  and  she 
did  not  go.  "  Povero  !  he  died.  And  I  knew  Tom- 
maseo,  who  used  to  listen  to  me  hour  after  hour,  and 
wrote  down  what  I  said.  And  I  knew  Giuliani,  who 
wrote  letters  to  Tommaseo  about  me,  and  printed 
them  in  a  book." 

"Yes,  we  have  read  the  book." 

"  Davvero  !  Yes,  men  had  been  for  hours  and  days 
writing  down  all  that  I  said  and  improvised  and  re 
cited, —  '  ottave  '  and  '  stornelli '  and  'rispetti.'  I 
have  sung  and  recited  everywhere.  No  other  Impro- 
visatori  could  compete  with  me.  I  have  had  many 
trials  with  them,  and  I  have  conquered  them  all,  —  yes, 
all  —  men  and  women.  One  man  quite  lost  his  voice 
singing  against  me,  and  never  got  it  back.  When  I 
once  got  started  I  could  go  on  almost  forever.  The 
verses  poured  out  like  water  from  a  fountain." 

"  You  have  had  a  happy  life.  We  know  that  you 
have  had  sorrows,  but  still  your  life  has  been  a  happy 
one." 

"Che!  che>  CHE!  CHE!"  These  four  die's  in 
crescendo  were  inimitable.  "  I  think  I  hare  been 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          65 

happy.  E  altro  !  "  She  beamed  all  over,  and  you 
might  have  thought  she  had  never  known  a  care  in 
her  life.  We  remembered  the  death  of  her  son,  the 
destruction  of  her  house  at  Pian  degli  Ontani  by 
the  flood  which  swept  it  to  the  river,  the  pain  and 
trouble  of  building  the  very  house  in  which  we  were 
seated,  for  which  she  carried  all  the  stones  up  the  hill, 
until  her  "reins  were  sore,"  as  she  had  said  to  Giu 
liani.  But  for  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  all  this. 
I  asked  her  how  old  she  was.  "If  it  please  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  to  spare  me,  I  shall  be  eighty  next  March." 
She  speaks  the  purest  Tuscan,  and  the  words  roll  out 
to  one's  delight.  I  asked  her,  with  intention,  if  she 
did  not  sing  or  recite  or  improvise  now.  She  said, 
"  Oh  !  I  am  too  old.  My  voice  is  all  gone  —  see  !  " 
And  then  she  began  to  sing,  with  a  voice  so  pure  and 
musical,  although,  of  course,  weakened  by  age,  that 
it  astonished  us.  It  was  as  if  she  had  taken  the  note 
from  some  rich-voiced  bird's  warbling.  She  sang  a 
number  of  verses  in  that  Oriental  way  which  Spanish 
gypsies  and  Egyptian  alme"es  had  made  familiar  to  us. 
It  was  startling  to  hear  in  these  Italian  mountains  strains 
which  in  their  form  we  thought  belonged  only  to  Moors 
and  Arabs.  "  Does  that  please  you  ?  "  She  was  evi 
dently  delighted  with  the  wonder  and  pleasure  she  saw 
depicted  in  our  faces.  And  she  began  to  recite  some 
5 


66          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  ottave  "  with  a  smoothness  of  rhythm  and  correct 
ness  of  measure  that  could  not  be  excelled.  Then, 
warming  up,  she  began  "  rispetti "  1  on  the  creation 
of  the  world,  following  them  with  improvised  verses 
wonderful  to  hear.  I  remembered  what  Tommaseo 
had  written  :  "  At  Cutigliano  I  have  found  a  rich  vein 
of  song  which  has  required  many  days  to  exhaust.  A 
certain  Beatrice,  wife  of  a  shepherd,  who  knew  not 
how  to  write,  but  who  could  improvise  wonderfully,  —  a 
woman  about  thirty  years  old,  with  an  inspired  flash 
of  the  eye;"  and  I  thought  of  Giuliani's  enthusiastic 
words  :  "  Words  cannot  express  to  you  the  astonish 
ment  which  fills  my  mind.  I  have  at  last  had  the 
delight  to  see  the  admirable  Beatrice  of  Pian  degli 
Ontani,  and  to  listen  to  her  sweet  improvisation, 
incredible  to  those  who  have  never  heard  it.  She  is 
really  a  prodigy  of  Nature.  Her  verse  overflows  with 
clearness  and  breadth,  is  ever  abundant  and  never  fail 
ing.  And  what  ingenuity  of  sentiment  ever  accompa 
nies  it !  What  life  and  grace  of  expression  !  What 
truth  of  feeling  !  An  entirely  new  thing  is  this  woman, 
who  by  a  divine  instinct  reveals  and  expands  herself 
in  giving  forth  poetry  while  she  is  tending  cattle  ;  who 

1  Short  compositions  of  one  or  two  stanzas,  which  are  gener 
ally  on  amatory  subjects,  sung  and  composed  by  the  contadini 
themselves. 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          67 

kncnvs  nothing  of  letters,  and  lives  separated  from 
fellowship  with  the  world.  In  ancient  Greece  she 
surely  would  have  been  numbered  among  the  singers 
selected  upon  earth  to  emulate  the  muses  and  to  give 
perpetual  delight  to  men." 

All  this,  and  more,  came  to  our  minds  as  we  listened 
to  one  after  the  other  of  the  verses  she  poured  forth. 
I  recognized  some  lines  which  Giuliani  had  written 
down  and  printed  :  — 

"  E  gran  sollago  ci  verremo  a  dare, 
Che  di  scrittura  non  posso  imparare  ; 
La  Montagna  e  stata  di  noi  maestra, 
La  Natura  ci  venne  a  nutricare,"  - 

which  give  an  idea  of  the  happy  thoughts  which  inspire 
her.  After  a  time  she  burst  forth  into  an  improvisa 
tion  of  which  we  were  the  subject.  She  thanked  us 
in  rich  and  smooth  verse  for  all  our  kindness.  She 
asked  the  good  God — "the  good  God  who  made 
the  noble  trees  and  the  beautiful  flowers  and  the  sing 
ing  birds  and  the  rich  sunshine"  —  to  bless  us  with 
all  His  best  things.  She  sang  of  our  having  come 
across  the  sea  to  visit  her.  She  thanked  us  again,  and 
wound  up  with  a  new  burst  of  blessings.  We  remarked 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  surroundings,  —  the  mountains 
and  their  varied  forms  and  colors,  the  great  trees  and 


68          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

their  beautiful  green,  the  river  in  its  rocky  bed,  the 
golden  grain-patches,  the  lights  and  shadows  and  float 
ing  clouds,  and  the  marvellous  blue  sky  over  all.  She 
had  seen  and  felt  it  all,  and  spoke  of  it  all  as  would  a 
poet,  with  the  fullest  appreciation  of  the  beauty  and 
blessing  of  its  loveliness. 

Time  had  flown,  and  we  had  to  go.  There  was  a 
long  walk,  and  there  was  Margherita  of  the  tender  feet. 
Beatrice  offered  us  fresh  milk,  and  then  came  the 
adieux,  which  were  as  cordial  as  if  we  had  known  each 
other  all  our  lives.  She  said  she  would  be  glad  to 
go  to  Cutigliano  to  see  us,  but  she  was  so  old  !  (She 
subsequently  came,  and  walked  all  the  way.)  At  last 
the  good-byes  were  said,  and  we  started  on  our  return. 
My  companion  walked  half  the  way,  to  the  mother  of 
twelve  children's  delight,  and  rode  the  balance,  to  my 
satisfaction.  We  reached  home  just  at  dusk.  As  we 
approached  the  village,  the  husband  of  the  mother  of 
the  twelve,  carrying  the  youngest  in  his  arms,  and  fol 
lowed  by  all  the  survivors,  came  in  procession  to  meet 
the  donkey  and  to  escort  us,  with  many  smiles  and 
exclamations,  chiefly  addressed  to  Margherita.  Near- 
ing  the  stable,  the  mother  of  her  children  pointed  out 
the  "  stalla "  of  the  donkey,  with  strong  hints  and 
many  allusions  to  tender  feet.  My  tender-hearted  was 
humbugged  by  the  cunning  one,  and  another  was 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          69 

added  to  the  victims  of  craft.  The  donkey  walked 
into  her  "  stalla,"  and  no  doubt  chuckled  with  her 
mistress  over  the  simplicity  of  the  "  forestieri." 

The  following  day  a  visitor  was  announced,  and 
appeared  in  the  shape  of  a  pretty  granddaughter  of 
Beatrice,  aged  about  eighteen.  She  came  to  bring 
us  a  basket  of  wild  strawberries  gathered  on  the  moun 
tain,  and  another  of  black  cherries,  with  loving  mes 
sages  from  her  grandmother.  We  asked  her  if  she  were 
the  grandchild  who  had  inherited  the  voice  of  Bea 
trice.  She  acknowledged  that  she  was,  but  we  could 
not  overcome  her  shyness  and  persuade  her  to  sing. 
After  a  little  time  another  visitor  was  announced,  and 
she  fled  with  her  empty  baskets,  carrying  many  mes 
sages  to  that  rare  old  woman,  the  peer  of  whom  has 
not  been  known,  at  least  within  the  last  sixty  years, 
as  an  Improvisatrice.  I  know  that  you  will  be  inter 
ested  in  this  account  of  her,  my  dear  Margaret,  and 
I  remain,  etc. 

"  What  a  simple,  delightful  story  the  letter 
tells,  does  it  not,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  "  and  how 
thoroughly  it  has  the  Italian  spirit  and  local 
flavor!  Have  you  been  in  Italy,  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede?" 


70          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer;  "I  was  in  Italy  for 
three  years." 

"  Ah !  then  you  have  doubtless  heard  '  stor- 
nelli '  and  '  rispetti '  in  their  own  land.  Mr. 
Wyatt,  do  sing  to  us  some  of  your  Italian 
national  songs.  I  trust  you  have  your  banjo 
with  you  ?  " 

"It  is  onboard  my  boat;  I  cannot  deny  it. 
I  will  whistle  for  it,  if  you  say  so." 

"  For  this  evening  my  guitar  will  do,"  said 
Margaret,  "  and  you  can  begin  with  '  E  quando 
per  udir  la  predica.'  " 

Charlie  Wyatt  took  the  guitar  and  sang  one 
song  after  the  other,  easily,  gracefully,  in  a  rich, 
mellow  barytone.  While  he  was  singing,  Miss 
Carr-Wynstede  rose  from  her  chair,  walked 
out  of  the  room,  —  out  of  the  house,  —  and  they 
could  see  her  tall,  slender  figure  standing  in  the 
moonlight  in  her  white  dress,  her  head  slightly 
bent,  like  a  lily  on  its  stalk,  leaning  against  the 
vine-covered  porch. 

"  She 's  a  calm  young  woman,"  muttered 
Ralph  to  himself.  "  I  suppose  singing  bores 
her." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          7 1 

When  Wyatt  had  stopped,  she  came  back. 

"  Do  you  sing?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bowdoin. 

"  Yes,  I  sing,"  said  the  girl,  and  her  voice 
trembled  slightly. 

"Will  you  sing?"  said  Wyatt  eagerly,  bearing 
her  no  grudge  for  her  apparent  indifference  to 
his  own  music. 

"  Not  to-night,  please,"  she  replied. 

When  Wyatt  rose  to  go,  Mrs.  Temple  said,  — 

"  You  know  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to 
have  you  stay  here,  but  I  suppose  I  cannot 
induce  you  to  sleep  on  land.  You  must  do 
everything  but  sleep  here,  though.  Come  to 
breakfast  to-morrow,  and  we  will  arrange  our 
day." 

When  Muriel  looked  out  of  her  window  that 
night,  the  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and 
the  "  Hope's  "  light  burned  steadily  as  she  lay 
at  her  moorings  just  across  the  harbor,  as  if  it 
were  burning  only  for  her  to  see. 


Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  d1  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !    fJoiu  he  sets  Jiis  bones 
To  bask  f  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirtli  j 
Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 
The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

High  grace,  the  dower  of  queens;  and  there  witJial 
Some  wood-born  wonders  swat  simplicity  : 
A  glance  like  water  brimming  with  the  sky, 
Or  hyacinth-light  where  forest  shadows  fall  : 
Such  thrilling  pallor  of  cheek  as  doth  enthrall 
The  heart ;  a  mouth  whose  passionate  forms  imply 
All  music  and  all  silence  held  thereby  : 
Deep  golden  locks,  her  sovereign  coronal. 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 


SECOND   DAY. 

THERE  were  two  big  linden-trees  near  the 
house,  which  had  been  planted  there  in  old 
Squire  Sanderson's  boyhood ;  and  under  them 
Mrs.  Temple  had  a  table  covered  with  books 
and  magazines,  a  Scheveningen  chair,  Persian 
rugs,  and  various  seats  and  cushions.  A  parrot 
which  Margaret  had  brought  from  Europe  years 
ago  hung  in  his  cage  from  one  of  the  branches, 
and  a  hammock  swung  between  the  trees,  which 
Mrs.  Bowdoin  took  possession  of  on  Tuesday 
morning,  and  announced  her  intention  of  not 
leaving  through  the  entire  week. 

O  C> 

"  You  promised  me  hammock  weather  in  this 
famous  climate;"  she  exclaimed,  "and  please 
don't  ask  me  to  do  things !  I  hate  doing  things. 
I  was  bored  to  death  at  Bar  Harbor  by  being 
constantly  obliged  to  go  on  all  sorts  of  dread 
ful  excursions.  One  had  to  go,  or  be  disliked. 
Let  me  alone  here,  please ;  it 's  all  I  ask.  I 


76          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

shall  not  mind  if  you  go  away  and  leave  me. 
Of  course,  Margaret  will  be  wanting  to  show 
the  beauties  of  her  beloved  Cape  to  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede ;  Polly  and  I  can  talk  to  one  another, 
and  I  can  listen  to  the  wind  whispering  in  the 
pine-trees  yonder,  and  to  the  lapping  of  the 
waves  on  the  beach  below.  I  shall  be  quite 
happy." 

"  The  '  Hope  '  is  just  hoisting  sail,  you  see," 
said  Charlie  \Vyatt.  "  She  is  at  your  disposi 
tion  whenever  you  command,  Mrs.  Temple." 

"  Thanks,"  replied  Margaret.  "  I  believe  she 
must  content  herself  with  a  masculine  party  to 
day.  I  am  going  to  take  Miss  Carr-YVynstcde  to 
drive  presently,  when  we  have  been  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Nye,  and  Bell  seems  to  have  arranged  herself 
for  the  morning.  She  wishes  to  be  left  alone 
for  purposes  of  composition,  I  presume.  You 
can  take  Ralph  and  Tom  with  you,  Mr.  Wyatt; 
only  don't  sail  away  too  far !  We  lunch  at  two, 
you  know." 

Wyatt  looked  a  little  disappointed,  but  only 
asked,  "  How  is  Miss  Carr-Wynstede  this 
morning?  " 


A  Week  aiuay  from   Time.          77 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Margaret.  "  I  left  her 
writing  letters  in  her  room.  I  wish  to  say,  here 
and  now,  that  she  has  won  my  heart;  that  I 
find  her  absolutely  lovely.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
met  a  girl  who  more  completely  captivated  me 
on  first  acquaintance." 

"Whew!  Margaret,"  cried  Ralph,  "what  a 
pace  you  do  go  at,  when  you  once  get  started  ! 
What  has  the  '  Englanderin  '  done  or  said  to 
fetch  you  like  that?  And  pray  when  did  she  do 
or  say  it?  In  the  night-watches,  when  the -rest 
of  us  were  slumbering,  all  unconscious  of  this 
conqueror  come  among  us?" 

"Yes,  you  have  guessed,"  answered  Margaret 
quietly.  "  In  the  night-watches.  You  have  said 
it.  Last  night,  as  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in 
my  bedroom,  there  was  a  gentle  knock  at 
the  door,  and  when  it  was  opened,  Miss  Carr- 
\Vynstede  stood,  hesitating  a  little,  and  said,  '  I 
beg  your  pardon.  Mrs.  Temple,  but  may  I  come 
in  for  a  moment? '  I  cannot  tell  you  how  lovely 
she  looked,  in  a  long,  softly-falling  white  peignoir, 
her  golden  hair  gathered  into  a  great  loose  coil, 
setting  off  the  perfect  shape  of  her  head  and 


78  A  Week  away  from   Time. 

throat,  as  the  open  sleeves  of  her  dress  showed 
arms  and  hands  of  rare  shape  and  fairness.  As 
she  came  forward  to  speak  to  me,  I  looked  into 
her  beautiful  eyes,  and  thought  I  saw  traces  of 
recent  tears.  'What  is  it,  my  dear  girl?'  I 
said.  'Are  you  ill?  Has  anything  happened 
to  trouble  you?'  I  made  her  sit  down  by  me, 
and  she  said, '  Dear  Mrs.  Temple,  what  must  you 
think  of  me?  Indeed,  I  know  I  have  been  very 
tiresome  and  very  stupid,  but  I  never  meant  to 
be  rude;  and  yet  twice  in  these  few  hours  I 
must  have  seemed  so.'  I  took  her  hands  in 
mine,  and  tried  to  say  that  I  did  not  know  what 
she  meant ;  but  she  went  on :  '  When  I  first 
came  downstairs  this  afternoon  (I  am  going  to 
tell  you  the  exact  truth,  Mrs.  Temple)  I  caught 
a  few  words  which  your  brother  was  saying,  and 
they  made  me  feel  shy  and  embarrassed.'  " 

Here  Ralph  colored  violently,  and  Polly,  who 
was  tired  of  receiving  no  attention,  screamed 
out,  "  I  told  you  so  !  I  told  you  so  !  " 

"  '  It  was  very  foolish  of  me  to  show  anything,' 
she  continued,  '  but  I  had  feared  that  it  must 
be  a  great  bore  to  have  a  stranger  in  your  little 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          79 

circle,  and  now  I  was  sure  of  it.  That  was  why 
I  said  I  would  rather  take  the  dog,  and  walk 
by  myself.  But  it  was  very  tiresome  of  me.  I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  am  awfully  ashamed  of 
myself.'  ': 

["  I  wonder  how  Ralph  feels  about  it?  "  whis 
pered  Tom  Bowdoin  to  his  wife. 

"  Not  very  happy,  I  should  say,  judging  from 
the  vicious  way  in  which  he  is  knocking  the 
heads  off  those  poor  white  daisies."] 

"I  assured  her  that  we  had  none  of  us  noticed 
anything  amiss  in  her,  and  that  it  was  for  its 
to  be  mortified  and  shocked  (as  indeed  I  was 
and  am)  that  we  should  have  been  so  ill- 
mannered  as  to  have  been  discussing  her  at  all. 
'  Then,  when  Mr.  Wyatt  was  singing/  she  said, 
'what  must  he,  what  must  you  have  thought? 
But  if  you  knew,  dear  Mrs.  Temple,  what  his  songs 
reminded  me  of!  My  only  sister  and  I  were  in 
Italy  together.  We  used  to  sing  all  those  songs.' 
She  stopped  for  a  moment;  her  eyes  filled  and 
her  voice  shook  as  she  added  simply,  'My  sister 
died  in  Florence.  We  both  loved  Italy  passion 
ately.  That  beautiful  letter  had  brought  it  all 


80          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

back  to  me,  and  I  was  afraid  I  should  burst  into 
tears  if  I  stayed  in  the  room.  But  I  suppose 
Mr.  Wyatt  will  never  sing  for  me  again.'  We 
talked  for  a  long  time,"  said  Margaret,  "  and,  as 
I  tell  you,  she  won  my  heart  forever.  And  I 
think  she  need  not  fear  that  you  will  not  sing 
to  her  again,  need  she,  Mr.  Wyatt?  Ah!  I 
see  you  have  brought  your  banjo  with  you  this 
morning.  That  promises  well." 

"  Miss  Carr-Wynstede  said  last  night  she 
would  like  to  learn  to  play  the  banjo,"  said 
Wyatt,  "  and  I  told  her  I  should  be  honored 
if  she  would  let  me  teach  her." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Kirkland,  Margaret?  " 
asked  Ralph. 

"Yes;  I  had  a  telegram  just  now.  He  is 
coming  by  the  afternoon  train." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Ralph  ;  "  and  must  he  have  a 
story  in  his  pocket  too?  You  surely  cannot 
expect  that  from  a  Professor  of  Ethics  at  Har 
vard  University." 

"  No ;  he  need  tell  no  story.  He  and  Miss 
Carr-Wynstcdc  are  exempt  from  the  general 
doom.  By  the  bye,  it  is  your  turn  to-night, 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          8 1 

Tom.  I  have  arranged  you  all  in  my  own 
mind,  and  discussion  is  useless.  So  don't  lose 
Tom  overboard  this  morning,  Mr.  Wyatt.  We 
shall  need  him  later." 

"  There  is  a  calmness  about  you,  Margaret, 
worthy  of  a  better  cause,"  said  her  brother-in- 
law,  laughing;  and  the  three  men  went  down 
to  the  landing,  and  in  a  few  moments  were  on 
board  the  "  Hope,"  and  she  was  under  sail  and 
off  out  of  the  Harbor,  and  soon  out  of  sight, 
with  a  fair  wind  and  all  sails  set,  heading  for 
Vineyard  Sound.  Miss  Carr-Wynstede  came 
downstairs  looking  very  handsome  and  serene, 
followed  by  Marie. 

"  I  am  ready  for  a  walk  or  drive,  or  what 
you  will,  dear  Mrs.  Temple,"  said  she,  "  as 
soon  as  I  have  found  out  what  Marie  means. 
She  tells  me  your  maid  Susan  has  asked  her 
to  go  'upon  the  sea'  with  her  and  some  one 
whose  name  she  cannot  remember ;  but  she 
says  it  is  a  name  from  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
and  she  calls  him  '  I'homme  aux  homards.'  I 
dare  say  it  is  quite  right,  but  I  wanted  to 
ask  you." 

6 


82  A   Week  away  from   Time. 

Margaret  laughed  heartily.  "  It  must  mean 
that  Jim  Canaan  has  asked  them  to  go  out  to 
his  lobster-pots,  as  a  delicate  attention  to  the 
foreigner.  Yes,  it  is  all  right.  Jim  is  the  best 
fellow  that  ever  lived,  though  reputed  a  lady- 
killer  in  the  neighborhood,  I  believe,  —  so  let 
Marie  beware,  —  and  Susan  goes  with  them  for 
propriety's  sake,  and  all  is  well.  Good-by,  Bell. 
Don't  go  to  sleep,  but  weave  us  a  romance  out 
of  the  stuff  this  golden  day  is  made  of." 

As  Margaret  stooped  to  kiss  her  sister,  who 
was  lying  placidly  in  the  hammock,  Bell  said,  — 

"  Good-by,  sister  mine.  How  young  you  look 
to-day,  and  how  happy !  Is  this  the  influence 
of  the  Gulf  Stream  that  you  and  Ralph  talk 
about?  Blessed  Gulf  Stream,  if  it  be  !  " 


A  mesnre  qu'on  a  plus  d 'esprit  on  trouve  qifil-y-a  plus 
cfhommes  originaux.  Lcs  gens  de  commun  ne  trouvent 
pas  de  difference  entre  les  Jiommes. 

PASCAL. 

Homo  sum  ;  humani  nihil  a  me  alienum  puto. 

TERENCE. 


SECOND   DAY. 
(Continued.) 

PROFESSOR  KIRKLAXD  had  telegraphed  that 
he  would  walk  from  the  station  to  Fair  Harbor, 
so  Ralph  went  to  meet  him  that  afternoon. 
When  the  two  gentlemen  reached  the  White 
House,  they  found  the  others  sitting  about 
under  the  lindens,  —  Bell  in  the  hammock, 
covered  with  a  yellow  chuddah  shawl,  from  the 
folds  of  which  the  soft  black  eyes  of  her  King 
Charles  looked  sleepily  forth ;  Margaret  wind 
ing  wool  for  her  knitting,  while  Tom  Bowdoin 
held  the  skein,  and  Erin  lay  at  her  feet  on  a 
very  becoming  rug;  at  a  little  distance,  the 
English  girl  and  Charlie  Wyatt,  the  latter  giving 
a  lesson  on  the  banjo,  which  they  both  appeared 
to  find  very  absorbing.  Margaret  greeted  the 
Professor  cordially,  as  an  old  friend,  and  (such 
born  actors  are  women,  the  simplest  and  hon- 
estest  of  them)  no  one  would  have  noticed 
a  deeper  color  in  her  cheek,  or  a  shade  more 


86          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

of  feeling  in  her  voice  than  usual,  unless  it  may 
have  been  Kirkland  himself;  and  he  \vas  too 
much  taken  up  in  trying  to  hide  his  own  emotion 
to  be  a  keen  observer  of  Margaret's  manner. 

"  I  am  just  as  glad  to  see  you  as  if  I  got  out 
of  the  hammock  to  greet  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bow- 
doin.  "Don't,  please,  expect  me  to  do  that;  I 
am  too  comfortable  here.  Besides,  no  woman 
likes  to  do  what  she  is  not  sure  of  doing  grace- 

o    o 

fully;  and  getting  out  of  a  hammock  is  a  crucial 
test." 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  if  you  moved,"  said  the 
Professor ;  "  you  are  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
scene.  I  supposed  Mrs.  Temple  had  arranged 
you  as  part  of  the  '  decor.'  You  match  the  soft 
dreamy  atmosphere,  and  the  purple  haze  over 
the  headlands,  and  the  murmur  in  the  pine-trees, 
and  the  summer  sea  yonder;  in  fact,  you  are 
the  embodiment  of  Fair  Harbor  in  its  most 
attractive  form." 

"  Hear,  hear  !  "  screamed  Polly  from  her  cage  ; 
and  Mr.  Bowdoin  said,  — 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  'd  ever  been  here  before, 
Philip  !  How  well  you  know  the  shibboleth  !  " 


A  Week  away  from   Time.  '        87 

"  Yes  ;  once,  a  long  time  ago,"  was  the  reply. 
"  I  was  at  Mattapoisett,  and  sailed  over  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Temple.  I  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"  Margaret,"  said  her  brother,  "  who  are  the 
people  that  have  built  the  rather  pretty  house 
over  there,  farther  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
Harbor?  It  was  not  there  last  year." 

"  They  are  Philadelphians,"  answered  Mar 
garet. 

"  '  Philadelphians  ' !  "  repeated  Ralph,  in  an 
indescribable  tone  of  voice. 

"  You  would  be  known  for  a  Bostonian,  just 
from  the  way  you  said  that  one  word,"  remarked 
Bowdoin. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Philadelphians?" 
asked  Muriel.  "  Are  n't  they  nice?  " 

"  They  are  not  precisely  nasty,  which  is  the 
English  alternative,  I  believe,"  said  Ralph  laugh 
ing;  "but  they're  so  very,  so  very  —  Philadel- 
phian !  They  have  a  language  of  their  own, 
and  they  insist  upon  talking  it  before  persons 
who  are  not  used  to  it.  They  even  defend  it, 
and  say  it  is  correct;  or  else  they  are  uncon 
scious  of  it,  which  is  more  exasperating  still." 


88          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Do  they  really  speak  a  separate  language?  " 
asked  Muriel,  looking  very  puzzled  and  serious. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  a  language.  It 's  a  dialect ; 
which  should  not  astonish  you,  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede,  coming  from  the  land  of  dialects. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  mean.  They  have  a  queer 
way  of  behaving  with  their  vowels.  They  elimi 
nate  the  broad  a  from  their  speech  almost  en 
tirely.  They  say  paaas  and  graaas  and  paaatJi. 
They  call  chicken,  chickn,  and  Ellen,  Elln,  and 
brown,  brayoivn,  and  bird,  and  girl  — no!  you 
must  hear  a  Philadelphian  '  pur  sang  '  pro 
nounce  those  words ;  I  could  not  do  justice  to 
them.  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  genuine  article  ; 
I  do  not  refer  to  the  travelled  Philadelphian 
who  has  adopted  the  speech  of  other  places." 

"  Of  Boston,  perhaps  you  would  say,"  sug 
gested  Mr.  Bowdoin.  "  Any  one  would  think 
we  had  some  standard  by  the  River  Charles,  like 
the  French  Academy,  for  example." 

"  When  I  was  at  Newport  once,  before  I  was 
married,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin,  "  there  was  a 
Philadelphian  quite  devoted  to  me,  who  was  by 
way  of  being  a  poet." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          89 

"  Their  poets  are  most  of  them  '  by  way  of 
being,'  "  interposed  Ralph.  "  Do  you  mean  old 
Nugent,  who  offered  himself  to  you  in  rhyme? 
You  showed  me  his  note.  It  began :  - 

'  If  you  '11  be  mine, 
As  I  am  thine, 
No  ill  of  Time 
Can  cause  repine. 
Then,  Bella  dear —  '" 

"  Oh,  stop,  Ralph,  for  pity's  sake !  "  said  his 
sister  blushing.  "I  don't  believe  I  ever  showed 
you  the  note  at  all.  You  must  have  looked  over 
my  shoulder  while  I  was  answering  it." 

"  Which  you  did,  in  prose,"  said  Ralph. 

"  As  I  was  saying  before  I  was  interrupted," 
continued  Bell,  "  this  gentleman  invited  me  one 
day  to  go  to  walk  with  him  on  the  cliffs,  and  as 
we  walked  he  asked  if  he  might  repeat  a  little 
poem  (he  called  it poum)  which  he  had  written. 
I  begged  him  to  do  so.  It  began  — 

'  Angel  faces  haaant  mee  pillah  — ' 
This  is  all  I  can  remember,  for  I  was  trying  so 
hard  not  to  laugh  at  the  first  line,  I  could  not 
listen  to  the  rest." 


go          A  Week  away  from  Time. 

"  There  are  mighty  nice  people  among  them, 
in  spite  of  their  patois"  said  Ralph  conde 
scendingly;  "but  I  wish  they  had  not  discov 
ered  Fair  Harbor.  There  are  so  many  other 
places !  We  have  had  this  one  to  ourselves 
for  so  long !  Now.  there  is  that  big  boarding- 

o  o  o 

house  across  the  Harbor  —  hotel,  I  believe  they 
call  it.  Just  fancy,  a  hotel  at  Fair  Harbor ! 
Margaret  bears  it  so  amiably,  I  am  provoked 
with  her." 

"  I  bear  it  amiably,  because  I  don't  object  to 
it,"  said  Margaret.  "  In  fact,  I  like  it.  In  the 
first  place,  I  am  predisposed  in  favor  of  people 
who  have  the  good  taste  to  select  Fair  Harbor 
for  their  play-days.  They  must  sec  its  beauties 
and  care  for  them  for  their  own  sake ;  and  I 
always  feel  that  there  must  be  something  very 
nice  in  people  who  love  Nature  and  a  country 
life  per  se." 

"That  theory  has  its  dangers,"  remarked  Mr. 
Bowdoin.  "  All  persons  with  innocent  tastes  are 
not  innocuous.  We  have  heard  that  a  cele 
brated  murderer  of  our  time  cared  specially  for 
music,  flowers,  and  little  children." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          9 1 

"  Then,  besides,"  went  on  Margaret,  "  I  like 
people.  People,  as  people,  as  human  beings, 
are  intensely  interesting  to  me.  I  have  always 
felt  that  the  Roman  gentleman  who  made  the 
celebrated  remark  announcing  his  affinity  with 
all  mankind  (was  it  Plautus  or  Terence  who  put  it 
into  his  mouth?)  was  my  twin  in  sentiment." 

"  Yes,  Margaret  is  quite  capable  of  making 
dear  friends  of  those  Philadelphians,  and  of 
having  them  over  here  constantly,"  sighed 
Ralph  ;  "and  even,  I  believe,  she  would  go  so  far 
as  to  row  across  the  harbor  to  the  hotel  and 
make  acquaintance  with  a  lot  of  uninteresting 
people  and  offer  them  the  freedom  of  the  White 
House." 

"How  do  we  know  they  are  uninteresting?" 
exclaimed  Margaret.  "  How  do  we  dare  take 
that  for  granted?  They  may  be  saying  the 
same  thing  of  us  at  this  moment,  and  we  know 
very  well  how  delightful  we  are." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  the  majority  of  human 
beings  are  interesting,  Mrs.  Temple?"  asked 
Wyatt ;  "  because  there  I  should  quite  disagree 
with  you.  The  masses  are  bores.  It  is  Matthew 


92          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

Arnold's  '  remnant '  which  saves.  Elimination 
is  tedious,  but  necessary.  The  processes  are 
many,  the  expense  often  ruinous,  before  the 
true  ore  emerges,  pure  and  shining.  More 
than  most  of  the  time,  is  the  game  worth  the 
candle?" 

"  I  do  not  like  your  simile,"  answered  Mar 
garet.  "  It  does  not  apply,  if  you  will  pardon 
my  saying  so.  Human  nature  does  not  hide 
itself.  One  need  not  dig,  or  dive,  or  struggle 
for  it.  Here  it  is,  in  the  world  with  us,  like  the 
sun  or  rain,  or  the  air  we  breathe.  And  what 
do  you  mean  by  '  the  masses '  ?  Are  they  not 
composed  of  individuals,  men  and  vvomen  and 
children,  —  above  all,  of  children?  So  I  have 
heard  people  speak  of  '  the  poor,'  and  how7  to 
deal  with  them.  As  if  the  poor  were  a  con 
glomerate  lump  of  misfortune  and  ignorance, 
one  great  army  of  '  Les  Miserables,'  to  be  han 
dled  en gros  and  not  en  detail !  Suppose  doctors 
treated  '  the  sick '  like  that,  and  gave  us  all  the 
same  pills  and  powders  when  we  were  ill !  It 
would  be  about  as  rational  as  your  way  of  look- 
ins  at  the  masses." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          93 

"  I  believe,  truly,  that  Margaret  delights  in 
common  people,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin.  "  That 's 
one  reason  she  likes  horse-cars." 

"  Yes,  I  own  it,  Bell.  I  never  go  in  the  rail 
way  train  from  Boston  to  Brookline,  or  in  a 
horse-car  from  the  West  End  to  the  South  End, 
without  getting  interested  in  some  face  I  see  or 
some  conversation  I  hear.  I  remember  I  went 
far  out  of  my  way  once,  I  became  so  absorbed 
in  a  woman  and  her  little  boy  whom  she  was 
taking  to  the  Children's  Hospital.  We  got  to 
be  great  friends  afterwards, — that  little  boy  and  I. 
I  dare  say  you  all  think  me  terribly  democratic; 
but  if  one  is  too  exclusive  in  this  world,  one 
may  end  by  shutting  out  the  sun." 

"  I  cannot  express  how  entirely  I  am  on  Mrs. 
Temple's  side  of  the  question,"  said  the  Pro 
fessor,  who  had  been  listening  attentively,  and 
now  joined  in  the  talk.  "  People  are  altogether 
the  most  interesting  things  in  this  most  interest 
ing  world.  This  would  seem  to  be  a  self-evident 
proposition ;  but  it  is  not,  or  wre  should  not  be 
discussing  it.  Every  time  a  child  is  born,  what 
possibilities  it  stands  for !  Here  may  be  the 


94          A   Week  away  from   Time. 

king  a  nation  is  awaiting,  the  great  inventor, 
the  great  philanthropist,  the  great  poet,  the 
great  preacher,  —  the  saviour,  in  some  sort,  of 
his  day  and  generation.  One  thrills  at  the 
tidings, — a  child  is  born.  It  is  as  when  a  city 
rises  out  of  an  uninhabited  region ;  one  says  to 
one's  self,  here  may  be  the  cradle  of  a  new  and 
higher  civilization !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bowdoin,  "  and  as  a  general 
thing  the  child  grows  up  to  fall  into  line  with 
the  average  mortal,  —  to  be  as  commonplace,  as 
unremunerative,  as  ordinary,  as  were  his  parents 
before  him.  So  the  new  city,  —  its  architecture 
as  dreary,  as  uniform,  as  in  the  next  town;  its 
law's  as  mechanical  and  lifeless ;  its  civilization 
as  unprogressive.  History  repeats  itself  in  in 
dividuals,  in  families,  in  nations.  Archimedes' 
lever  would  be  of  little  use  in  a  treadmill." 

"  For  shame  !  for  shame  !  "  cried  Margaret. 
"  E  pur  si  miiove  !  I  thank  Heaven  that  every 
day's  sun  shines  on  a  new-created  world.  As 
for  me,  the  very  word 'stranger '  always  makes 
my  heart  beat  a  little  quicker.  When  I  was  a 
young  girl  in  society,  and  one  said,  '  Let  me 


A   Week  away  from   Time.          95 

present  Mr.  So-and-so  to  you/  I  always  began 
by  thinking,  '  This  may  be  the  prince  I  have 
been  dreaming  of.  Let  me  wake  and  try  to 
recognize  him.'  " 

"  How  often  you  must  have  been  disappointed, 
dear  Mrs.  Temple,"  said  Wyatt,  "  when  you 
were  thoroughly  awake." 

"  Yes,  but  it  never  prevented  my  dreaming 
again.  The  prince  is  always  somewhere  in  the 
world.  One  finds  the  world  more  beautiful 
because  he  is  in  it,  even  if  he  has  never  quite 
reached  one's  castle  gate.  Meantime  the  world 
itself  is  full  and  running  over  with  all  that  makes 
life  worth  living.  And  why?  Because  in  it  are 
hundreds  of  millions  of  God's  creatures  with 
that  thing  we  call  a  soul  in  their  bodies." 

"  Surely  there  can  be  no  lack  of  reasons  for 
finding  our  fellow-beings  interesting,"  added  the 
Professor,  "  since  to  all  of  them  come  sorrow 
and  sin  and  death." 

There  was  a  pause  after  these  last  words,  and 
presently  a  voice  was  heard,  saying,  "  Well, 
well !  here  you  all  are !  I  am  so  glad,  now,  I 
chose  Fair  Harbor !  "  And  the  owner  of  the 


96          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

voice  came  panting  into  the  midst  of  the  group, 
having  apparently  climbed  the  steepest  part  of 
the  bank,  from  the  water. 

"  Why  Caroline  Chauncey,  my  dear  Caroline  ! 
where  in  the  name  of  all  that 's  welcome  did  you 
come  from?"  exclaimed  Margaret;  and  Polly, 
who  was  always  greatly  excited  over  a  new 
arrival,  shouted,  "  Te !  Te !  Ones  aco?  Oues 
aqui?"1  Being  a  Provencal  parrot,  she  had 
preserved  some  of  her  native  dialect.  "  And 
why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  you  were  in  the 
neighborhood?  " 

"  For  the  best  of  reasons,  my  dear  !  I  did  n't 
know  it  myself  till  a  few  moments  ago.  You 
see,  I  meant  to  go  to  Newport  for  a  week ; 
and  although  I  had  invitations  to  my  friends' 
houses,  I  refused  them  all,  and  thought  I  would 
just  go  to  Munschinger's  by  myself.  When  I 
got  down  to  the  Old  Colony  railroad  station,  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  me  how  stupid  it  was  to 
go  to  Newport  where  I  knew  every  one,  and 
how  nice  it  would  be  to  go  to  some  place  I 
never  heard  of.  So  I  went  and  stood  by  the 
1  Tiens  I  Tiens  !  Qu'est-ce-qu'il  y-a  ?  Qui  est-ce  ? 


A  Week  away  from   Time.          97 

ticket-office  and  listened  to  the  names  of  the 
places ;  and  presently  somebody  said, '  Give  me 
a  ticket  for  Fair  Harbor;  '  and  I  said  to  myself, 
'  What  a  pretty  name !  That 's  where  I  will 
go.'  So  I  got  a  ticket,  and  when  the  train 
stopped  I  got  out,  and  went  up  to  a  vehicle 
and  asked  the  boy  to  drive  me  somewhere,  and 
he  said  would  I  go  to  the  Fair  Harbor  House? 
That  seemed  a  practical  thing  to  do.  He  took 
me  to  the  house  over  yonder,  and  I  said  to  the 
landlady,  '  Who  lives  in  the  big  white  house 
across  the  river, —  or  is  it  a  river?'  and  she 
said,  '  Mrs.  Temple.'  So  I  told  her  to  have  me 
taken  directly  there,  that  I  might  see  if  it  was 
iny  Mrs.  Temple.  I  was  put,  just  as  I  was,  into 
a  boat  and  rowed  across ;  and  here  you  are, 
and  here  am  I !  Do  you  know  I  like  the  look 
of  things  immensely,  and  think  I  shall  stay  a 
week,  —  especially  since  I  have  found  you  all." 

"  Then  come  in  and  dine  with  us,"  said 
Margaret;  "that  will  be  delightful." 

"  If  you  will  let  me  dine  in  my  travelling- 
dress.  I  find  I  have  not  my  trunk  with  me.  It 
must  have  been  left  in  Boston  at  the  station,  or 
7 


98          A  Week  away  from   Time. 

perhaps  it  went  to  Newport.     Would  you  just 
telegraph  for  it,  Mr.  Travers,"  turning  to  Ralph,— 
"to  both  places,  please?     If  it  is  not  at  either 
of  them,  or  at  my  own  house,  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  where  it  can  possibly  be." 


Honest  love,  honest  sorrow, 

Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  the  morrow, 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the  hands  they  make 

weary, 

The  hearts  they  have  saddened,   the  lives  they   leave 
dreary  ? 

O\VEX  MEREDITH. 

Ce  qui  importe  dans  le  sacrifice,  c'esl  le  sacrifice  mcme. 
Si  Fobjet  pour  lequel  on  se  devoue  est  une  illusion,  le 
devouement  ft1  en  est  pas  mains  une  rcalite  ;  et  cette  rcalite 
est  la  plus  splcndide  parure  dont  rhomine  puisse  dccorer 
la  misere  morale. 

AXATOLE  FRANCE. 


EVENING   OF   SECOND   DAY. 

AFTER  dinner,  which  was  a  very  gay  one,  — 
Mrs.  Chatmcey's  funny  mistakes  and  inconse 
quences  making  much  merriment,  in  which 
that  dear  lady  freely  joined,  —  Mrs.  Temple 
said,  — 

"Now,  Tom,  what  have  you  got  for  us? 
Something  very  nice,  I  know." 

"  My  dear  Margaret,"  said  Bowdoin,  looking 
a  little  uneasy,  "  I  have  forborne  my  confes 
sion  until  this  supreme  moment.  I  dare  say 
you  will  be  very  angry,  and  perhaps  refuse  my 
contribution  altogether.  But  what  will  you? 
Can  a  man  who  has  never  written  an  original 
line  in  his  life,  all  of  a  sudden  produce  a 
story  on  command,  even  on  your  command, 
O  Queen?  No,  of  course  he  cannot.  Yet 
Bell  said  if  I  did  n't  bring  something,  I  could 
not  come  at  all.  So  I  searched  among  my 


IO2        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

papers,  thinking  that  perhaps  I  might  some  day 
have  written  a  story  without  knowing  it ;  and  I 
found  —  " 

"Well,  what  did  you  find?"  eagerly  asked 
Margaret. 

"  I  found  this,"  said  Tom,  taking  a  manu 
script  from  his  pocket.  "  It  is  —  now,  don't 
frown,  Margaret  —  it  is  a  translation,  or  rather 
an  adaptation  of  a  story  of  Guy  de  Maupassant's. 
I  found  it  in  a  collection  of  short  stories  last 
winter,  and  liked  it  so  much  that  I  translated  it 
for  my  own  amusement.  If  it  is  quite  against 
your  ideas  to  allow  anything  second-hand  to* 
come  inside  this  sacred  circle,  I  will  not  read  it. 
But  it  is  all  I  have." 

"What  does  the  company  say?"  asked  the 
hostess,  turning  to  the  others.  "  Shall  we  have 
Tom's  translation?  My  only  objection  would 
be  that  it  might  be  taken  as  a  precedent.  But 
I  believe  we  are  pretty  safe  for  the  rest  of  the 
week,  are  we  not?  " 

It  was  voted,  with  no  contrary  minds,  that 
the  translation  should  be  heard ;  and  Bowdoin 
read 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.          103 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   NECKLACE. 

MONSIEUR  ALPHONSE  LOISEL  was  a  clerk  in  what  in 
Washington  would  be  called  the  State  Department. 
He  was  a  faithful  and  painstaking  official,  and  as  he 
did  not  draw  his  salary  from  the  United  States  Treas 
ury,  he  did  not  live  under  the  imminent  possibility  of 
being  turned  out  of  his  position  at  any  moment  to 
make  room  for  some  fellow  whom  a  member  of  Con 
gress,  to  pay  off  an  old  political  debt,  wanted  to  put 
in  his  place.  The  machinery  of  the  administration 
moved  all  the  more  smoothly  for  the  care  and  polite 
ness  with  which  he  attended  to  his  part  of  it.  He  had 
a  salary  of  five  thousand  francs,  and  looked  forward 
to  the  continuance  of  it  so  long  as  he  performed  faith 
fully  and  well  his  allotted  task,  and  could  hope  for  a 
pension  if  in  the  course  of  time  he  were  used  up  in 
the  service  of  his  country. 

Madame  Loisel  was  a  charming  young  woman  of 
twenty-five  years.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  small 
tradesman  who  had  died  a  year  or  two  before  her 
marriage,  leaving  her  a  few  thousand  francs.  Besides 
having  a  lovely  figure,  she  was  graceful  in  her  man 
ners  and  carriage,  and  therefore  most  attractive  on 
first  acquaintance.  She  was  a  brunette,  with  delicate 


IO4        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

features,  large,  soft,  dark  eyes,  with  long  lashes.  She 
had  beautiful  arms  and  shoulders  and  bust,  with  small 
hands  and  feet.  With  all  this,  there  was  an  air  of 
refinement  about  her  more  attractive  than  her  beauty. 
She  was  one  of  the  women  who  seem  created  by  Na 
ture  to  be  admired  of  men.  She  would  have  enjoyed 
and  contributed  more  to  what  is  called  "  society  "  than 
most  of  her  sex,  if  she  had  had  the  means  to  do  so ; 
as  it  was,  she  had  to  be  content  with  admiring  the 
luxury  of  others,  —  in  studying  the  brilliant  toilettes 
which  she  saw  in  the  public  promenades,  or  at  the 
theatres,  where  she  went  occasionally  with  her  hus 
band  to  indulge  in  the  artificial  emotions  of  the 
drama. 

The  most  memorable  day  of  her  life  had  been  when 
she  went  to  a  ball  given  by  one  of  the  heads  of  the 
department  in  which  her  husband  was  employed. 
That  was  two  years  before  our  story  opens.  How 
much  she  would  have  enjoyed  one  of  those  grand 
ministerial  balls  to  which  the  great  people  from  all 
parts  of  the  world  were  glad  to  go  !  She  had  heard  of 
them,  and  pictured  to  herself  halls  hung  with  cloth  of 
gold  and  Gobelin  tapestry ;  the  panels  and  ceilings 
painted  by  celebrated  artists ;  marble  staircases  lined 
with  exotic  plants  which  filled  the  air  with  tropical 
odors ;  mirrors  reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.         105 

chandeliers  of  crystal  brilliant  with  the  light  of  innu 
merable  candles.  One  day,  on  coming  home  at  the 
usual  hour,  Monsieur  Loisel  informed  his  wife  that  it 
was  said  that  in  the  following  month  one  of  those 
grand  ministerial  balls  was  about  to  take  place.  For 
some  reason,  he  did  not  know  why,  it  was  to  be  excep 
tionally  fine,  —  more  so  than  any  previous  one.  After 
a  fortnight  the  rumor  became  a  certainty,  and  later  it 
was  known  that  invitations  were  being  sent  out ;  but 
it  was  going  to  be  so  magnificent  and  select  that  it 
was  very  difficult,  even  for  high  officials,  to  procure 
one.  There  was  a  great  stir  about  it.  It  was  said 
that  the  Shah  of  Persia  was  to  be  there  in  a  uniform 
shining  like  the  sun  with  precious  stones. 

"  How  splendid  it  will  be  ! "  said  Madame  Loisel 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband.  "  I  have  heard 
that  the  Shah  has  an  emerald  on  his  fez  as  big  as  a 
robin's  egg,  into  which  are  stuck  three  golden  feathers 
of  some  bird  unknown  to  science." 

Every  day  on  his  return  home  Monsieur  Loisel  had 
something  new  to  tell  his  wife  about  the  approaching 
ball.  Once,  it  was  that  the  Russian  Grand- Duke  was 
to  be  there  with  a  suite  of  twenty-five  officers ;  again, 
there  were  to  be  members  of  ten  of  the  royal  families 
of  Europe.  The  Chinese  ambassador,  who  had  just 


io6        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

arrived  in  France,  was  going  with  his  suite.  It  was 
said  they  would  all  be  dressed  in  yellow  silk,  which 
was  the  imperial  color,  and  their  shoes  and  caps,  and 
even  their  underclothes,  would  be  of  the  same  hue, 
and  of  the  finest  Chinese  crape.  There  was  to  be  a 
celebrated  Turkish  grandee,  —  a  general  of  great  re 
nown  who  had  burned  an  entire  village,  and  who  had 
received  the  Albert  medal  from  Queen  Victoria,  all  set 
round  with  diamonds ;  he  was  to  take  the  wife  of  the 
English  ambassador  in  to  supper.  There  would  be 
Scotch  officers,  who  generally  go  about  with  bare  legs, 
but  on  this  occasion  they  were  to  wear  silk  tights. 
Some  Bashi-Basouks  from  Central  Asia  were  going  in 
uniforms  made  of  camel's  hair  wrought  with  gold.  The 
ladies  would  be  more  superbly  dressed  than  they  had 
ever  been  before.  The  principal  jewellers  of  Paris  had 
already  sold  half  of  their  most  precious  ornaments. 

"  How  perfectly  magnificent  it  will  be  !  "  said  Ma 
dame  Loisel.  "  It  will  be  like  one  of  the  Arabian 
Nights'  tales." 

Two  days  later  Monsieur  Loisel  came  home  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  earlier  than  usual.  He  ran  up  to  the 
third  story  where  his  apartment  was,  opened-  his  door, 
and  stood  panting  for  breath  before  his  astonished 
wife,  with  one  hand  in  his  breast.  "  My  dear,  what 
do  you  think  I  have  in  my  pocket-book?" 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.         107 

"Why,"  she  answered,  "  how  should  I  know?  You 
are  all  out  of  breath.  Why  did  you  run  so  ?  I  do 
not  know  what  you  have.  Is  it  seats  at  the  opera?  " 

"  Better  than  that." 

"  Better  than  that !     What  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  Here,"  said  Monsieur  Loisel,  taking  an  envelope 
out  of  his  breast-pocket  and  offering  it  to  her,  —  "  here 
are  two  tickets,  for  you  and  for  me,  for  the  —  for 
the  —  can  you  guess  ?  —  for  the  grand  ball  given  by 
the  Minister  of  the  Interior  three  weeks  from  to 
day." 

"  How  extraordinary  !  Is  it  possible  ?  How  did 
you  get  them?"  exclaimed  Madame  Loisel,  utterly 
overcome  at  what  she  heard,  and  uncertain  if  she  had 
understood  aright. 

"  My  friend  Goaillet  gave  them  to  me.  He  could 
not  use  them  himself,  on  account  of  a  death  in  the 
family." 

Madame  Loisel  took  the  tickets  in  her  hand  and 
looked  at  them,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other. 
There  was  no  mistake.  There  was  the  printed  invita 
tion,  with  the  names  written  in  ink.  She  beamed  with 
delight.  "  How  enchanting  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  can 
scarcely  believe  it." 

After  a  moment,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  from 
her  first  surprise,  while  still  looking  at  the  invitation, 


io8        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

she  turned  quickly  to  her  husband,  as  if  a  sudden  and 
painful  thought  had  come  to  her. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  what  shall  I  wear?  " 

"  Why,"  he  replied,  "  put  on  the  dress  you  go  to 
the  opera  in." 

"  That  will  not  do.  It  is  not  made  for  a  ball-dress. 
It  is  not  a  proper  one  for  the  occasion." 

"  Can  you  not  alter  it  so  that  it  will  do?  " 

"  Alter  it !  No.  It  could  never  be  made  fit.  How 
dull  men  are  about  such  things  !  I  should  have  to  get 
a  new  dress,"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

This  was  a  serious  consideration.  But  the  grand 
ball  was  such  an  exceptional  occasion ;  it  would  be 
the  great  social  event  of  her  life ;  it  might  never  oc 
cur  again  ;  she  would  probably  never  again  have  such 
a  chance.  It  was  decided  that  she  should  have  a 
new  dress.  It  was,  however,  not  to  cost  over  three 
hundred  and  fifty  francs,  and  was  to  be  made  of 
some  material  and  color  that  might  be  utilized 
afterward. 

Madame  Loisel  was  beside  herself  with  joy.  She 
immediately  set  about  her  dress.  She  chose  a  hand 
some  yellow  silk,  of  good  quality  and  becoming  shade. 
It  was  made  de'collete',  with  a  long  train,  and  trimmed 
with  lace.  She  worked  at  it  herself  with  the  dress 
maker  during  the  day,  and  dreamed  of  it  at  night.  It 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.         109 

was  a  great  success.  The  fit  was  perfect.  It  became 
her  wonderfully.  She  looked  distinguished  and  beau 
tiful  in  it.  There  was  only  one  thing  wanting  to  make 
it  perfect,  and  that  was  some  jewelry  rich  enough  to 
complete  the  whole. 

Madame  Loisel  felt  this  keenly ;  but  what  could  be 
done  ?  She  had  one  handsome  diamond  ring,  but  that 
would  not  be  an  ornament  for  her  dress.  Suddenly 
the  thought  struck  her  that  one  of  her  old  school 
friends,  who  had  married  a  man  of  property,  and  was 
living  in  style  in  another  part  of  Paris,  had  a  good  deal 
of  jewelry,  and  might  be  willing  to  lend  her  some. 
Her  name  was  Caroline  Forestier.  She  had  been  one 
of  her  most  intimate  friends  at  school.  Marriage  had 
separated  them  somewhat,  as  often  happens  in  such 
cases,  but  she  had  kept  up  a  greater  intimacy  with  her 
than  with  most  of  the  friends  of  her  school-days.  They 
did  not  meet  very  often,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  always 
with  affection  when  they  did. 

Madame  Loisel  resolved  to  go  to  see  her  friend  and 
ask  her  to  lend  her  some  of  her  ornaments.  "  My  dear 
Caroline,"  said  she,  after  the  first  greetings  were  over, 
"  I  am  going  day  after  to-morrow  to  the  grand  ball 
given  by  the  Minister  of  the  Interior."  And  she  told 
her  all  she  knew  about  it ;  how  she  had  had  an  expen 
sive  dress  made  for  the  occasion,  how  beautiful  iUwas, 


no        A   Week  away  from  Time. 

and  how  the  only  thing  needed  to  make  it  perfect 
was  some  jewelry ;  and  she  ended  by  asking  her  friend 
to  lend  her  some. 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame  Forestier,  "how  lovely 
you  will  look  !  Yellow  is  so  becoming  to  you  !  I 
wish  I  were  going  to  the  ball,  but  I  am  not  invited. 
I  have  heard  that  it  is  going  to  be  very  splendid.  I 
will  lend  you  some  jewels  with  pleasure.  What  will 
you  have  ?  You  may  choose  what  you  think  will  look 
best." 

And  thereupon  she  led  her  friend  to  a  small  safe  let 
into  the  wall,  and  opening  it  with  a  key  she  wore  on 
her  watch-chain,  begged  her  to  choose.  There  was  a 
necklace  of  gold,  set  with  emeralds ;  there  was  another 
of  pearls  ;  diamond  brooches,  beautiful  Venetian  chains 
and  bracelets.  Madame  Loisel  looked  at  them  one 
after  the  other ;  a  selection  was  difficult ;  she  could  not 
make  up  her  mind.  As  she  was  hesitating,  she  spied 
in  a  corner  a  box  of  light-blue  velvet  which  had  not 
been  opened.  She  drew  it  toward  her.  It  contained 
a  riviere  of  diamonds. 

"  Oh,  how  magnificent  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But 
I  dare  not  ask  you  for  that.  It  is  too  precious  to 
lend." 

"You  may,  my  dear,"  answered  her  friend.  "Why 
not  2  You  may  take  it  if  you  desire  to  so  much." 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.         1 1 1 

Madame  Loisel  fell  on  Caroline's  neck  and  em 
braced  her.  When  she  left,  she  carried  home  the 
treasure  with  her. 

The  appointed  evening  came.  Madame  Loisel  was 
at  the  great  ball.  As  soon  as  she  arrived  she  attracted 
as  much  attention  as  any  one  there.  She  was  very 
handsome,  and  it  was  a  new  face.  Two  ladies  of  great 
fashion,  after  surveying  her  carefully  from  head  to 
foot,  though  they  had  to  admit  that  she  was  very 
striking-looking,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  rich 
ness  of  her  dress  did  not  correspond  to  that  of  her 
necklace. 

"I  wonder  where  she  got  that  necklace?"  said  one 
to  the  other.  "Do  you  know  who  she  is?" 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  never  saw  her  before.  She  must  be 
a  stranger.  I  thought  she  came  in  with  an  American- 
looking  man." 

"  But  if  she  were  an  American,  her  dress  would  be 
extravagantly  rich ;  even  too  much  so.  Hers  is  too 
simple  for  the  necklace,  and  it  is  not  studied  simplicity 
either." 

The  men,  however,  made  up  by  their  attentions  for 
any  disparaging  remarks  of  the  other  sex.  They  vied 
with  each  other  to  be  presented  to  her.  Officers,  who 
were  as  satisfied  with  their  uniforms  as  Madame  Loi 
sel  was  with  her  dress,  crowded  round  her,  those  with 


ii2        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

higher  titles,  or  of  higher  rank,  gently  pushing  the  in 
ferior  ones  aside.  Diplomats,  noblemen,  distinguished 
authors,  men  of  science,  gazed  at  her  as  she  passed. 
An  English  earl  was  so  charmed  with  her  that  he  spoke 
English  to  her  for  ten  minutes  before  finding  out  that 
she  did  not  understand  a  word  of  it ;  and  he  had  to  give 
way  to  a  German  duke  who  had  thirty  orders  on  his 
breast.  A  successful  American  speculator  was  so  much 
pleased  with  her  that  he  invited  her  and  her  husband 
to  come  and  visit  him  at  Chicago,  saying  that  he  would 
pay  all  their  travelling  expenses.  After  much  skirmish 
ing  with  an  Italian  prince,  who  was  also  a  grandee  of 
Spain,  one  of  the  financial  powers  of  London  suc 
ceeded  in  leading  her  in  to  supper,  and  besought  her 
to  be  present  at  a  ball  that  was  to  be  given  in  a  month 
at  the  English  Embassy,  saying  that  H.  R.  H.  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  would  probably  be  there,  and  asking 
for  the  honor  of  sending  her  as  many  invitations  as 
she  desired.  The  Russian  Grand-Duke  was  presented 
to  her,  and  ordered  his  aide-de-camp  to  see  that  she 
was  invited  to  the  Russian  Embassy.  It  was  the  hap 
piest  evening  of  her  life.  She  was  courted  and  ad 
mired  and  flattered,  and  pleased  with  herself,  and  Mon 
sieur  Loisel  was  sincerely  proud  of  his  beautiful  wife. 

But  every  joy  must  come  to  an  end.     Toward  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  the  salons  were  being  deserted. 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.         1 1 3 

Madame  Loisel  had  stayed  almost  to  the  last.  Her  hus 
band  had  been  patiently  waiting  for  her,  quietly  dozing 
on  a  chair,  in  one  of  the  side-rooms,  with  several  other 
men  doing  the  same  thing  while  waiting  for  their  wives. 
Monsieur  Loisel  threw  over  his  wife's  shoulders  a  cloak 
which  contrasted  strongly  by  its  simplicity  with  her  dress, 
and  with  the  rich  wraps  and  furs  that  the  ladies  put  on 
who  were  leaving  at  the  same  time ;  and  they  hurried 
off,  down  the  grand  staircase,  between  the  double  rows 
of  liveried  servants,  and  past  the  gorgeous  sentinels  on 
guard  at  the  entrance.  There  was  no  cab  to  be  seen. 
They  walked  down  the  street  looking  about  for  some 
means  of  getting  home.  At  last,  in  a  remote  corner, 
they  found  an  old  tumble-down  cab,  the  horse  of 
which  was  asleep  in  the  shafts,  and  the  owner  asleep 
on  the  box.  They  woke  the  man ;  he  started  up  his 
horse,  and  they  drove  home.  It  was  half-past  five  in 
the  morning.  Monsieur  Loisel  was  tired  and  sleepy,  as 
he  went  upstairs  to  their  apartment,  knowing  that  he 
would  have  to  be  at  his  desk  at  nine  o'clock.  His 
wife  was  too  much  excited  to  feel  fatigued.  She  had 
had  such  a  bewildering  night  —  and  there  was  to  be 
another  ball  next  month  at  the  English  Embassy.  She 
took  off  her  cloak  in  front  of  the  looking-glass  in  the 
parlor  to  have  one  more  farewell  look  at  herself  in  her 
ball-dress.  Suddenly  she  turned  pale,  put  her  hand 


114        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

up  to  her  neck,  staggered  for  a  second,  uttered  a 
cry,  and  remained  motionless  as  a  statue,  with  her 
eyes  wide  open,  staring  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  her  husband,  coming 
from  the  bedroom. 

"  I  have  lost  the  necklace  !  "  exclaimed  his  wife. 

Monsieur  Loisel  turned  pale  in  his  turn.  "  You  have 
lost  Madame  Forestier's  necklace?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  !  "  gasped  the  unhappy  woman. 

They  began  searching  for  it  —  in  her  cloak,  in  the 
folds  of  her  dress  —  everywhere  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be 
found. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  had  it  when  you  left  the  ball 
room?" 

"  Yes,  I  put  my  hand  up  to  feel  for  it  the  last  thing 
I  did  before  leaving  the  house." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  have  left  it  in  the 
carriage?" 

"  Do  I  know  !  I  must  have  dropped  it  in  the  street. 
I  know  I  had  it  on  when  I  left  the  palace." 

Monsieur  Loisel  put  on  his  coat  and  hurried  out, 
jumped  into  a  cab  and  drove  to  the  door  of  the  palace  by 
which  they  had  left  after  the  ball.  He  then  followed 
on  foot  the  street  they  had  taken  in  coming  home 
an  hour  before.  He  searched  the  steps  of  the  palace, 
the  gutters,  the  doorways,  —  everywhere ;  he  found 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.         1 1 5 

nothing.  He  went  to  the  police  office  to  state  the 
loss,  to  the  overseers  of  the  pawn-shops,  to  the  officers 
of  the  cab  companies.  He  advertised  the  necklace, 
promising  a  large  reward  to  the  finder  who  should 
return  it,  and  no  questions  asked.  In  the  afternoon 
he  returned  home  :  his  wife  had  passed  the  day  in  a 
worse  state  of  mind  than  he.  After  a  week  they  gave 
up  all  hope  of  finding  the  necklace.  They  both  looked 
ten  years  older. 

"  We  must  get  a  necklace  just  like  it  for  Madame 
Forestier,"  said  the  husband. 

They  took  the  box  to  the  jeweller  whose  name  was 
printed  in  the  inside.  He  looked  at  it,  consulted  his 
books,  and  said,  "  The  box  is  mine,  but  I  did  not 
sell  the  necklace  you  describe.  I  have  none  similar 
to  it."  They  went  from  jeweller  to  jeweller,  trying  to 
find  something  sufficiently  like  the  lost  ornament  to 
put  in  its  place.  At  last  they  found  one  which  Madame 
Loisel  thought  almost  exactly  like  it.  The  price  was 
40,000  francs.  The  jeweller  promised  to  keep  it  for 
them  for  three  days,  and  to  take  it  back  for  35,000 
francs  any  time  within  three  months,  in  case  the  other 
necklace  should  turn  up. 

Monsieur  Loisel  and  his  wife  did  not  possess  any 
thing  approaching  the  sum  needed.  They  took  all  they 
had  —  carried  all  they  could  to  the  pawnbroker's, 


1 1 6        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

asked  one  friend  to  loan  them  2,000  francs,  one  or 
two  500,  or  what  they  could  spare  ;  they  borrowed  the 
rest  from  money-lenders  at  thirty  to  forty  per  cent 
interest ;  and  at  the  end  of  another  week,  with  bank 
ruptcy  and  poverty  staring  them  in  the  face,  Monsieur 
Loisel  went  to  the  jeweller,  paid  him  40,000  francs, 
and  received  the  necklace.  The  next  day  Madame 
Loisel  carried  it  to  her  friend. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  returned  it  sooner.  I 
might  have  wanted  it  to  wear  myself,"  said  Madame 
Forestier,  who  evidently  had  not  seen  the  advertise 
ments  in  the  newspapers.  She  put  the  box  back  in 
the  safe  as  she  spoke.  Then,  turning  to  her  friend,  she 
said,  — 

"  But  you  promised  to  tell  me  about  the  ball.  How 
did  you  enjoy  it?  " 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  now  !  "  said  Madame  Loisel ; 
and  bidding  her  friend  a  hurried  good-by,  she  went 
home. 

Now  came  for  the  Loisels  a  life  of  poverty.  They 
sent  off  their  "  bonne  ;  "  they  gave  up  their  apartment, 
and  took  a  few  rooms  in  one  of  the  poor  quarters  of 
the  city,  way  upstairs  in  a  narrow,  dirty  street.  Madame 
Loisel  had  to  do  all  the  work  of  the  household,  the 
cooking  as  well  as  the  washing.  She  dried  her  clothes 
on  a  line  running  from  her  window  to  a  hook  in  the 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace.          1 1 7 

wall  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  yard.  They  had  to 
bring  up  the  water  from  the  street,  and  carry  down  the 
ashes.  Dressed  in  an  old  stained  gown,  with  holes  in 
her  shoes,  and  well-darned  stockings,  Madame  Loisel 
wandered  out  to  get  food  where  it  was  cheapest,  and 
buy  the  adulterated  groceries  with  which  the  poor  have 
to  be  satisfied.  She  often  went  hungry,  that  her  hus 
band  might  have  something  to  eat  when  he  came  home 
in  the  evening.  Every  month  Monsieur  Loisel  had  to 
pay  the  interest  on  his  notes,  and  was  often  glad  to  renew 
them  at  the  same  exorbitant  rates.  He  passed  part 
of  his  nights  in  copying  manuscripts  at  five  sous  a 
page,  while  in  the  evenings  he  kept  the  books  of  a 
small  shopkeeper  in  the  neighborhood.  Sometimes  in 
the  afternoon  Madame  Loisel  would  sit  at  the  win 
dow  looking  on  the  street  before  her  husband  had 
returned  from  his  office,  and  after  she  had  finished 
the  hard  work  of  the  day,  and  think  of  that  happiest 
evening  of  her  life,  and  of  all  the  misery  that  had 
come  of  it. 

This  life  lasted  ten  years.  One  evening  Monsieur 
Loisel  came  home  with  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand, 
and  laying  it  on  the  table,  said,  "  At  last !  This  is  the 
last  bill  we  owe  !  Everything  is  paid."  But  he  and 
his  wife  had  become  old  people.  She  was  stout  and 
coarse  and  wrinkled. 


1 1 8        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

One  Sunday,  not  long  after  Monsieur  Loisel  had  paid 
up  the  capital  of  his  debts  and  their  compound  interest, 
Madame  Loisel  strolled  out  into  the  Champs  Elysees  to 
get  a  little  rest  and  fresh  air  after  the  work  and  con 
finement  of  the  week.  She  was  suddenly  attracted  by 
the  appearance  of  a  lady  who  was  walking  with  a  child 
not  far  off.  She  looked  at  her  long  and  steadily,  and 
thought  she  recognized  her  former  friend,  Caroline 
Forestier,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  the  day  she 
returned  the  diamond  necklace,  ten  years  ago.  She 
was  still  young  and  handsome,  while  Madame  Loisel  felt 
that  she  herself  was  worn  and  wrinkled  and  dilapi 
dated.  "  I  must  speak  to  her,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Now  we  have  paid  up  everything,  I  can  tell  her  the 
story  and  not  be  ashamed."  And  going  up  to  her,  she 
said,  "  Good-morning,  Caroline  !  "  The  lady  looked  up, 
surprised  at  being  greeted  so  familiarly  by  so  common- 
looking  a  person  whom  she  did  not  know,  and  said,  — 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake,  I  believe." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  think  not.  Are  you  not  Caroline 
Forestier?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name,  but  I  do  not  remember  ever 
having  seen  you  before." 

"  Caroline,  I  am  Mathilde  Loisel." 

"  You  Mathilde  Loisel  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Fores- 
tier,  recalling  the  memories  of  former  days.  "  Where  do 


The  Story  of  the  Necklace,          1 1 9 

you  come  from?  How  changed  you  are  !  I  tried  long 
ago  to  find  you  at  your  former  lodgings,  but  you  had 
gone  away,  and  left  no  address.  I  did  not  know  you." 

"Since  I  saw  you  last,"  said  Madame  Loisel,  "we 
have  had  —  my  husband  and  I  —  a  hard  life,  and  you 
had  something  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  !  "  repeated  Madame  Forestier.  "  I  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  your  life  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  you  !  Do  you  remember  lending  me 
your  diamond  necklace,  ten  years  ago,  to  go  to  the  ball 
given  at  the  Ministerial  Palace  ?  " 

"  Yes,  surely  ;  but  what  had  that  to  do  —  " 

"  I  lost  it  the  night  I  wore  it." 

"  You  lost  it !  But  you  brought  it  back  to  me  a 
fortnight  afterward.  I  remember  it  very  well,  for  it 
was  the  last  time  I  ever  saw  you." 

"  No,  I  did  not  bring  it  back  to  you.  I  brought 
you  another  one,  like  it.  It  cost  40,000  francs.  My 
husband  and  I  have  been  working  and  economizing 
ever  since  to  pay  for  it ;  and  we  have  done  it  at  last. 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  truth.  When  I 
brought  the  necklace  to  you,  you  put  it  away  without 
even  looking  at  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  paid  40,000  francs 
for  the  necklace  you  brought  me  for  the  one  I  lent 
you?" 


1 20        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"Yes,  we  did;  and  it  has  taken  us  ten  years." 
Madame  Forestier  looked  at  her  old  friend  hardly 

able  to  speak,  and  then  taking  both  her  hands   she 

said,  "  Mathilda,  my  necklace  was  not  of  diamonds  ; 

it   was   of  paste.     The   whole  thing   was  not   worth 

500  francs." 

"  It  is  a  very  nice  story,"  said  Airs.  Chauncey, 
—  "very  nice;  only  it  was  too  bad  that  she 
should  have  grown  so  old  and  plain.  It  seems 
so  strange,  too,  in  Paris,  where  they  have  all 
sorts  of  cosmetics  and  things.  Why,  I  met 
Mrs.  Wiggin  in  Beacon  Street  the  other  day. 
She  has  been  living  in  Paris  for  five  years, 
you  know.  She's  sixty  if  she's  a  day;  and 
what  with  her  golden  blond  hair  and  her  Worth 
clothes,  she  looks  twenty-five." 

"  You  will  sing  to  us  to-night,  Muriel,  will  you 
not?"  said  Mrs.  Temple. 

"  Yes,  willingly,"  replied  Muriel,  going  to  the 
piano.  She  ran  over  the  keys  for  a  few  moments, 
preluding  dreamily;  and  Margaret  saw  that  she 
was  really  musical,  which  is  not  necessarily  the 
case  with  every  one  who  plays  and  sings.  Pres 
ently  she  struck  a  few  chords,  and  sang :  — 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        1 2 1 

"  In  the  summer  twilight, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pansies, 

Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 
The  fishing-lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea, 
And  '  Come,'  I  sang,  '  my  true  love, 

Come,  hasten  home  to  me  ! ' 

"  But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning, 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon, 
And  the  young  moon  dropped  from  heaven, 

And  the  lights  hid  one  by  one. 
And  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea, 
And  '  Wait,'  cried  the  night-wind  and  the  storm, 

'  Wait  till  I  come  to  thee.' )!1 

Charlie  Wyatt  had  been  gazing  with  a  rapt, 
adoring  expresbion  at  Miss  Carr-Wynstede  while 
she  sang,  and  with  the  utter  unconsciousness 
that  any  one  might  be  observing  him,  which 
betokens  a  man  very  far  gone  indeed.  He  went 
toward  her  when  the  song  was  finished. 

"  I  never  heard  those  words  set  to  music,"  he 
said.  "  They  are  great  favorites  of  mine." 

"  Will  you  sing  the  song  you  were  speaking 
to  me  of  this  morning?"  asked  Muriel. 

1  The  words  by  Mrs.  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 


122        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

VVyatt  took  the  guitar  and  sang :  — 

"  Thy  claim  alone  I  wait, 
If  soon  or  late  it  summon  me  — 

Stranded  like  yon  imprisoned  boat, 

Till  the  compelling  tide  shall  lift  or  float, 
And  bear  out  unresisting  to  the  longed-for  sea, 
So  will  I  wait  that  one  full  hour  with  thee  ! 

"  No  other  love  than  thine  ; 

Though  the  slow  hours  ebb  wearily, 
False  voices  tempt  from  off  the  shore, 
One  song  once-sung  I  hear  forever  more, 

One  light  burns  clear  and  white  across  the  blackest  sea  ; 

One  hour  the  flood-tide  of  thy  love  shall  set  me  free." 

Afterward  Muriel  and  Wyatt  sang  together 
Italian,  German,  English  songs.  Muriel's  voice 
was  a  mezzo-soprano,  with  deep,  tender,  low  notes, 
and  the  two  voices  blended  perfectly  together. 

"  Confound  the  fellow !  "  whispered  Ralph  to 
his  brother-in-law;  "isn't  it  enough  that  he 
should  be  as  handsome  as  that,  without  singing 
love-songs  in  a  way  that  no  woman  can  be 
expected  to  resist,  into  the  bargain?" 

"  It  is  a  little  rough  on  the  rest  of  us," 
said  Bowdoin  laughing;  and  to  himself  he 
thought,  "  Oho,  Mr.  Ralph !  sits  the  wind  in 
that  quarter?" 


A  Hit  when  she  was  embarked,  did  you  not  mark  how 
the  waves  whistled,  and  the  seas  danced  for  joy,  and 
all  because  they  had  Urania. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY'S  Arcadia. 

The  great  s'd>cet  mother,  mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea  ! 

SWINBURNE. 


THIRD   DAY. 

IT  was  in  very  truth  a  perfect  day,  the  one 
they  had  chosen  for  sailing  to  Waquoit.  Even 
Mrs.  Bowdoin  was  tempted  from  the  hammock, — 
to  her  own  great  surprise,  —  and  found  herself  on 
board  the  "  Hope  "  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  with  the  rest  of  the  party,  Mrs.  Chauncey 
included,  who  had  brought  a  life-preserver  with 
her  from  the  hotel,  but  had  been  induced  by 
Mrs.  Temple  to  leave  it  behind,  as  it  might  hurt 
Mr.  \Yyatt's  feelings.  To  judge  by  the  raptu 
rous  expression  on  that  handsome  face,  nothing 
could  ruffle  him  to-day,  or  mar  the  absolute  joy 
he  felt  that  Muriel's  feet  were  at  last  treading 
the  deck  of  his  vessel.  He  blushed  all  to  him 
self  that  he  could  ever  have  said  what  he  did 
(and  now  remembered  with  an  agony  of  shame) 
to  Mrs.  Bowdoin.  "  What  an  idiot  I  was  !  "  he 
muttered.  This  was  to  be  an  all-day  expedition, 
and  they  were  to  lunch  on  board.  Margaret 


126        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

had  consulted  with  Captain  Nye,  and  had  found 
that  they  were  picking  cranberries  at  Waquoit,  — 
a  function  she  especially  wanted  the  English 
girl  to  witness,  as  being  something  the  like  of 
which  she  had  never  seen,  and  could  see  nowhere 
else  so  well. 

"  I  have  sent  horses  and  traps  to  meet  us  at 
Waquoit  Bay,"  said  Mrs.  Temple.  "They  will 
take  us  to  the  cranberry  bog  I  think  best  worth 
seeing,  and  if  any  of  you  prefer  land-travel  to  a 
sea-voyage,  they  shall  be  at  your  disposition  to 
bring  you  home." 

"  As  the  wind  is  fair,  and  as  we  have  the  day 
before  us,"  said  Wyatt,  "  I  thought  we  would  go 
round  Naushon  into  Vineyard  Sound.  When  we 
come  back,  if  the  tide  serves,  \ve  will  make  the 
short-cut  through  the  Holl,  by  Nobska-light." 

"  How  charming  those  names  are !  "  said 
Muriel.  "  Whenever  I  hear  the  Indian  names 
in  this  country,  I  wonder  that  I  hear  them  so 
seldom.  And  I  dare  say  they  all  mean  some 
thing.  Waquoit,  for  instance?  " 

"  They  say  it  came  from  the  call  of  the  quail," 
answered  Wyatt ;  "and  certainly  it  is  as  much 


A  Week  away  from  Time.        127 

like  it  as  '  More  wet !  More  wet ! '  which  is 
unreliable  meteorologically,  or  '  Bob  White  ! ' 
which  is  prosaic  and  unmeaning.  See !  is  not 
the  island  of  Naushon  pretty?" 

As  Wyatt  spoke,  they  were  sailing  near  to 
the  shore  of  Naushon,  by  Kettle  Cove,  and  out 
from  the  thicket  came  a  deer,  quite  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  The  beautiful  creature  looked  at 
the  vessel  for  a  moment  with  her  great,  soft, 
startled  eyes,  and  bounded  back  into  the  forest. 
A  kingfisher  stood  on  the  beach,  on  one  leg, 
and  calmly  watched  the  "  Hope  "  sail  by.  Shel 
drakes  and  gulls  flew  over  their  heads,  and  in 
the  woods  beyond,  the  quail  were  calling  "  Wa- 
quoit !  Waquoit !  "  A  thick  growth  of  oaks  and 
maples  in  their  autumn  bravery  made  a  fringe 
of  color  quite  down  to  the  narrow  line  of  white 
beach-sand,  so  that  the  brilliant  hues  were  re 
flected  in  the  water. 

"  How  very,  very  beautiful  it  is  !  "  said  Muriel 
with  enthusiasm.  "  I  have  never  seen  anything 
quite  like  it." 

"  There  is  always  something  very  fascinating 
to  me  about  an  island,"  said  Margaret.  "  I  shall 


128        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

never  forget  one  beautiful  day  in  January,  at 
Cannes,  when  I  went  over  in  a  boat  to  the 
islands  of  Ste.  Marguerite  and  St.  Honorat. 
After  doing  what  was  expected  of  us  in  visiting 
the  fortress  at  Ste.  Marguerite,  and  the  cell 
where  the  '  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask '  was  shut 
up,  and  looking  at  the  wall  over  which  General 
Bazaine  escaped  two  centuries  later,  we  walked 
across  the  island  through  a  wonderful  forest  of 
stone-pines  bowed  by  the  winds,  and  olive-trees 
whose  charm  is  too  subtle  and  mysterious  to 
be  told  on  canvas  or  by  any  words,  and  came 
out  to  the  water  again.  Here  a  boat  took  us 
across  to  the  Isle  St.  Honorat.  I  can  hardly 
say  why  this  place  appealed  so  strongly  to  my 
imagination,  but  truly  that  day  I  felt  as  I  sup 
pose  poets  feel  everyday.  There  is  a  monas 
tery  at  one  end  of  the  island,  —  one  of  the  oldest 
in  France,  —  within  whose  cloistered  walls  live 
monks  of  a  silent  order.  They  never  speak 
except  to  say  their  prayers;  and  I  fancied  I 
could  hear,  in  the  still  air,  the  echoes  of  the  Ave 
Marias  and  the  Amens  as  they  were  chanted 
from  cell  to  cell.  Outside  the  walls  of  the 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        1 29 

cloister  garden,  into  which  no  woman's  foot 
ever  penetrated,  were  alleys  bordered  with  box 
and  rosemary,  which  filled  the  air  with  sweet 
odors.  The  waves  wrashed  the  stony  beach  at 
our  feet,  and  wild  flowers  and  tall  canes  and 
rushes  grew  thick  on  the  craggy  banks.  I  sat 
down  in  a  little  empty  chapel  looking  out  to 
sea,  and  wanted  to  stay  forever.  I  believe 
I  would  have  taken  the  vow  of  perpetual 
silence,  if  those  stern,  white-cowled  monks 
would  have  let  me  in.  For  days  and  days  the 
place  haunted  me;  and  at  night, when  the  moon 
shone,  I  fancied  it  lighting  up  the  cells  and 
corridors  of  the  '  Moines  Silencieux,'  and  again 
I  heard  the  echoes  of  the  Aves  and  the  long 
Amen." 

"  How  can  men  make  such  asses  of  them 
selves?"  was  Ralph's  slightly  brusque  excla 
mation. 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  so  remarkable,"  said 
Tom  Bowdoin.  "  I  dare  say  they  had  heard 
too  much  talk.  They  had  probably  all  been 
married  men.  Now,  what  does  surprise  me,  is 
to  learn  that  there  is  an  order,  somewhere,  of 
9 


1 30        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

'  Sceurs  Silencieuses  ! '  That,  indeed,  is  phe 
nomenal,  and  contrary  to  nature." 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  live  at  Naushon," 
remarked  Muriel. 

"  It's  very  pretty,"  said  Mrs.  Chauncey;  "  but 
one  might  as  well  be  Robinson  Crusoe,  or  a 
babe  in  the  wood,  and  done  with  it.  And  just 
think,  in  case  of  fire  !  and  evenings !  No  one 
to  drop  in,  and  no  theatre  or  anything,  and 
those  dreadful  gulls  screaming.  I  should  go 
crazy,  I  am  sure  !  " 

The  yacht  had  rounded  Naushon,  and  was 
sailing  up  Vineyard  Sound,  and  to  the  south 
east  Martha's  Vineyard  lay  misty  and  purple  in 
the  distance. 

"  Does  the  entire  vineyard  belong  to  Martha?" 
asked  Mrs.  Chauncey,  —  "  and  who  is  Martha,  at 
any  rate?  I  dare  say  you  think  me  very  igno 
rant,  but  I  have  heard  of  her  all  my  life,  and 
have  always  meant  to  ask  some  one  who  knew. 
Can't  we  go  there  some  day?  " 

"Ah!  never;  let  me  beg  you,  never!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Temple.  "  I,  too,  year  after 
year  have  sailed  by  that  island,  as  we  are  sail- 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        1 3 1 


ing  now,  and  thought  how  attractive  it  looked, 
veiled  in  mist,  clad  in  the  grace  of  distance. 
One  day  —  one  rash  day  —  I  made  Ralph  take 
me  there.  We  landed  at  Oak  Bluff.  It  was 
camp-meeting  time.  We  drove  to  Cottage  City. 
I  spoke  never  a  word  till  we  were  on  board  my 
boat  again.  Then  I  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
said,  '  Oh,  horrible  !  horrible  !  most  horrible  ! ' 
I  felt  like  Rosamond  with  her  purple  jar.  No, 
let  me  spare  you  that  disillusion.  Never  tear 
away  that  veil ;  there  are  ghastly  horrors  behind 
it.  '  Non  ragionam  di  lor,  ma  guarda  e  passa  ! ' ' 

"Why,  with  your  love  of  the  masses,  I  should 
think  you  'd  rather  like  a  cottage  at  Oak  Bluff," 
said  Bell.  "It  would  be  better  than  horse-cars, 
because  more  of  it." 

Margaret  looked  scornful,  but  made  no  re 
ply.  Steering  northward  now,  they  passed 
Menahaut, —  another  Indian  name  for  Muriel, — 
and  came  into  Waquoit  Bay,  past  Monamascoy 
Island.  She  wrote  the  names  down,  and  said 
she  had  a  favorite  cat  at  home,  who  should  be 
christened  Monamascoy  as  soon  as  she  got  back 
to  Devonshire, 


132        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

As  the  sloop  came  about  just  before  going 
into  the  Bay,  her  sail  hit  Mrs.  Chauncey's  red 
parasol,  which  she  was  holding  high  over  her 
head,  and  knocked  it  into  the  w-ater. 

"  It  was  my  fault,"  said  Wyatt,  who  was  at  the 
helm  (for  though  he  had  an  excellent  skipper, 
he  liked  sometimes  to  sail  his  own  boat).  "  I 
should  have  warned  you." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  the  most  good-natured 
of  women.  "I  really  ought  to  have  known  myself; 
for  when  poor  dear  Paul  was  alive  he  used  to 
take  me  sailing  a  good  deal,  and  I  might  have 
known  that  when  you  took  in  a  tuck  'that's 
what  you  call  it,  I  believe)  I  should  have  put 
down  my  parasol.  I  really  used  to  know  a  good 
deal  about  boats,  Paul  being  an  architect,  you 
know.  I  knew  all  the  sails ;  the  mainsail  fmain- 
sle,  you  have  to  say),  and  boomsle,  and  sternsle, 
and  all ;  and  I  used  to  sing,  — 

'  Give  me  a  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sail.' 

You  all  know  it;  though  why  they  wanted  to 
sleep  in  damp  sheets,  I  never  could  think  —  it's  so 
unhealthy.  To  make  them  hardy,  I  suppose." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        133 


It  was  luncheon-time  when  the  "  Hope  "  cast 
anchor  in  the  pretty  bay;  and  as  the  whole 
party  agreed  that  it  was  a  pity  to  go  below  and 
so  lose  sight  of  the  wooded  shores  and  curving 
beaches,  they  lunched  on  deck  sumptuously, 
an«l  Mrs.  Chauncey  declared  that  if  she  only 
shut  her  eyes  she  should  imagine  herself  at 
Delmonico's.  "  But  I  will  not  shut  my  eyes," 
said  she  firmly,  with  something  of  a  Spartan  air. 

On  shore  they  found  vehicles  waiting  for 
them.  Mrs.  Temple  and  the  Professor  led  the 
way  up  through  the  lane  leading  to  the  little 
village,  through  the  village,  past  the  old  mill, 
by  a  wood-road,  out  upon  the  cranberry  bog. 
They  left  their  carriages  and  walked  a  short 
distance,  across  a  wooden  bridge,  and  found 
themselves  looking  upon  what  was  to  most  of 
them  as  novel  a  scene  as  it  was  to  the  English 
girl.  The  harvest  of  the  cranberry  is  an  impor 
tant  epoch  to  the  dwellers  on  the  south  side  of 
Cape  Cod.  It  may  be  called  the  industry  of 
that  region,  as  the  salting  and  packing  of  cod 
fish  is  of  other  parts.  Every  autumn,  before 
the  hard  frosts  come,  the  "  raccolte "  of  the 


134        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

berry  takes  place.  The  school-children  are 
given  a  vacation  of  three  or  four  days,  and 
young  and  old  devote  themselves  to  the  gather 
ing  of  the  fruit  without  which  no  Thanksgiv 
ing  or  Christmas  dinner  in  New  England  is 
complete.  • 

This  special  bog,  on  this  special  day,  pre 
sented  a  memorable  sight.  A  piece  of  cleared 
land  of  ten  or  twelve  acres,  of  no  great  value 
for  other  purposes,  had  been  consecrated  to 
cranberry  culture,  and  this  year's  yield  was 
reported  to  be  a  remarkably  fine  one.  The 
delicate  vine,  with  its  myrtle-green  leaves,  ran 
thick  and  close,  close  to  the  sandy  soil;  under 
neath,  when  you  stooped  to  look,  you  saw  the 
rich  crimson  berries,  with  a  purple  bloom  on 
them.  Indeed,  when  one  looked  over  the  whole 
wide  acres,  the  ruddy  fruit  cast  a  warm  tinge  up 
through  the  green,  as  one  sees  the  blood-red 
heart  of  the  alexandrite  glowing  through  the 
deep  green  of  the  stone. 

This  cranberry  bog  was  set  in  a  frame  of 
bright  foliage ;  shrub  oaks,  their  leaves,  "  some 
stained  as  with  blood,  and  made  crimson,  and 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        135 

some  as  with  tears ;  "  maples,  scarlet  and  gold 
in  the  sunshine ;  red  woodbine  running  riot  over 
the  trunks  of  old  pines;  all  sorts  of  bright 
bushes  and  vines  joining  hands  to  dress  the 
festival  with  the  gayest  they  could  give;  and 
kneeling  on  the  ground  were  women  and  chil 
dren  by  scores,  silently  picking  and  filling  the 
measures  as  if  performing  some  sacred  rite. 
Here  and  there  a  bright  shawl  on  one  of  the 
women,  or  a  gay  handkerchief  round  a  girl's 
neck,  or  a  colored  ribbon  knotted  in  her  braids, 
made  a  spot  of  sympathetic  color  among  the 
crowd.  One  little  fellow  looked  up  as  the 
party  approached,  and  caught  sight  of  Joujou 
in  Mrs.  Bowdoin's  arms.  "  Oh,  look,  mother, 
look  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  that 's  the  littlest  dog  I  ever 
saw !  Just  see  his  tail !  "  The  woman  never 
raised  her  head.  "PiCK  !  "  she  shouted  in  stern, 
stentorian  tones  from  the  depths  of  her  sun- 
bonnet  to  the  small  boy,  who  hung  his  head 
and  obeyed  the  mandate.'  What  were  little 
dogs  or  their  tails,  when  weighed  in  the  balance 
with  his  stint  of  so  many  quarts  an  hour  !  Each 
picker  is  provided  with  a  tin  measure  into  which 


136        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

he  drops  the  berries  as  he  pulls  them  from  the 
vines.  He  is  paid  so  much  for  each  measure. 
These  are  poured  into  larger  receptacles,  and 
finally  into  bushel-baskets.  Inspectors  walk 
about,  and  take  account  of  what  each  one  does, 
and  shout  the  tally  across  the  fields  to  the 
head  man,  who  marks  it  all  down.  The  bushel- 
basketfuls  are  poured  into  sacks,  which  are 
piled  upon  barrows  and  carried  off  to  fill  the 
carts  awaiting  them  by  the  roadside.  Muriel 
saw  one  of  these  barrows  being  carried  slowly 
along  by  two  men,  one  at  each  end ;  they 
seemed  to  be  singing  as  they  walked,  and  their 
song  came  over  the  field  in  a  sort  of  solemn 
chant. 

"See  !  "  said  Muriel ;  "the  funeral  of  the  cran 
berry  !  Could  anything  be  more  picturesque?  " 

"  And  they  are  as  unconscious  of  making 
pictures,"  said  Ralph,  who  stood  by  her  side, 
"  as  any  of  Millet's  French  peasants." 

Margaret  Temple  had  been  walking  about 
among  the  people,  recognizing  here  and  there 
an  old  acquaintance.  As  she  passed  the  small 
boy,  who  now  would  n't  have  looked  up  if  a 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        137 

cannon  had  been  fired  close  to  him,  she  stooped 
and  put  a  bit  of  silver  in  his  quart  measure. 
"  Xow  you  may  look  at  the  little  dog  for  a 
moment,"  she  said  ;  and  Joujou  was  patted,  and 
wagged  his  tail,  much  to  the  small  boy's  delight, 
and  the  grim  maternal  face  relaxed  into  the 
brief  semblance  of  a  smile. 

"  When  Paul  and  I  were  in  Cuba,"  said  Mrs. 
Chauncey,  as  they  were  walking  back  to  the 
carriages,  "  we  went  to  a  coffee-picking  on  a 
plantation.  It  was  just  like  this,  only,  of  course, 
they  were  slaves,  and  there  were  slave-drivers 
with  long  whips,  and  the  men  were  almost  naked, 
and  it  was  entirely  different  —  still  —  "  and  they 
all  said  they  knew  exactly  what  Mrs.  Chauncey 
meant. 

The  vehicles  drove  back  to  Fair  Harbor 
empty  as  they  had  come.  The  "  Hope  "  bore 
her  precious  freight  proudly  home,  and  came 
up  to  her  moorings  just  as  the  sun  was  setting. 
"  Thank  you  for  the  happiest  day  of  my  life," 
whispered  Charlie  Wyatt  to  Muriel. 


Let '  s  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Ah,  what  while  thing  at  the  door  has  crossed  ! 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

With  bodiless  form  and  unapparent  feet. 

IBID. 

A  thousand  pushing  weeds  the  borders  hold, 
And  standing  with  them,  wild  and  rank  as  they, 
Are  tender  blossoms,  now  grown  overbold, 
And  careless  of  the  garden' s  slow  decay. 
Oh,  far  away,  in  some  serener  air, 
The  eyes  that  loved  them  see.  a  heavenly  dawn  ; 
How  can  they  bloom  without  her  tender  care  ? 
Why  should  they  live,  when  her  sweet  life  is  gone  ? 

And  Against  its  walls  the  city^s  heart  still  beats, 
And  out  from  it  each  summer  wind  (hat  blows, 
Carries  some  sweetness  to  the  tired  streets. 

MARGARET  DELANO. 


EVENING   OF  THIRD   DAY. 

MR.  BOWDOIN  excused  himself  for  being  five 
minutes  late  when  he  came  downstairs  dressed 
for  dinner.  "  Captain  Nye  and  I  took  a  walk 
to  the  old  churchyard  between  here  and  Fal- 
mouth  just  now,"  he  said,  "  and  I  lingered 
longer  than  I  meant  to,  trying  to  decipher  some 
inscriptions  by  the  dim  twilight." 

"  You  told  me  you  were  making  a  compara 
tive  collection  of  New  England  epitaphs,"  said 
Professor  Kirkland.  "  Do  you  find  that  the 
mortuary  sentiment  of  the  interior  suffers  any 
sea-change  on  the  borders  of  salt  water?" 

"  Perhaps  you  find  these  doleful  composi 
tions  more  vague  in  expression,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Temple,  "  and,  so  to  speak,  more  modern 
than  your  gleanings  from  our  mountain  towns. 
Perhaps  it  seems  easier  to  reach  heaven  from 
the  top  of  a  hill ;  whereas  the  hazards  of  this 
present  life  to  those  who  get  their  bread  upon 


142        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

the  treacherous  deep  would  be  likely  to  cast  a 
sea-haze  over  that  which  is  to  come." 

"  Well  generalized,  Margaret,"  replied  Bow- 
doin.  "  It  is  only  a  pity  that  a  speculation  so 
thoughtful  and  subtle  should  not  accord  with 
the  fact.  But  the  truth  is  that  maritime  popu 
lations  want  a  more  cheerful  faith  than  those 
living  upon  our  green  uplands.  \Yhen  you 
look  over  my  collection,  you  will  find  a  distem 
pered  self-consciousness  about  the  inland  epi 
taphs  which  is  somewhat  repulsive.  Their 
warning  outcries  make  little  impression  upon  a 
generation  which  thinks  it  knows  too  much  to 
be  scared  so  easily."  He  took  a  slip  of  paper 
from  his  pocket.  "  Let  me  contrast  them  with 
this  verse  which  I  copied  an  hour  ago.  The 
stone,  as  nearly  as  I  could  make  it  out,  bore  the 
date  1742. 

'  Beneath  this  sod  I  lie  content : 
Come  rest  with  me  :  but  first  repent : 
And  when  the  trumpet  sounds  "Arise  !  " 
Together  we  will  seek  the  skies.' 

Did  you  ever  get  an  invitation  that  was  more 
hospitable,  hearty,  and  matter-of-fact?     Observe 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        143 

that  the  remark  about  repentance  is  not  made 
offensively  prominent.  It  is  thrown  out  by  the 
way,  as  one  might  say.  '  If  you  come  to  the 
picnic,  don't  forget  your  umbrella.'  " 

"I  admire  the  strong  assertion  of  the  'Ego' 
in  your  verse,"  said  Margaret.  "  It  is  no  miser 
able  matter  of  lime  and  carbon,  but  /  who  lie 
here.  It  is  /  who  propose  to  enter  my  bour 
geois  mansion  in  the  sky,  and  in  your  good 
company,  if  you  will !  It  is  a  pity  that  this 
honest  mariner  could  not  have  attended  the 
theosophic  conversations  at  Mrs.  Spring's  last 
winter.  He  would  have  learned  that  while 
John  Brown's  essence  might  go  marching  on, 
it  was  very  doubtful  whether  it  must  carry  its 
baggage  of  personality  throughout  the  eternal 
tramp." 

"  To  change  the  subject  for  a  moment,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowdoin,  "  and  to  leave  immortality  for 
more  fleeting  themes,  who  is  to  be  victimized 
to-night?  I  wish  to  state  that  my  story  is  not 
finished,  but  that  I  hope  to  lay  it  before  an 
indulgent  audience  in  a  day  or  two,  if  I  am  left 
in  tolerable  peace  to-morrow." 


1 44        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Mr.  Wyatt  has  something  for  us  to-night,  I 
believe,"  said  Margaret. 

Antinous  blushed  violently,  tugged  hard  at 
his  yellow  moustache,  and  said  :  "  I  have  a  poor 
little  thing  at  the  service  of  you  all,  and  shall 
be  only  too  glad  to  read  it  and  have  it  over.  It 
has  one  merit.  It  is  not  long." 

After  dinner,  and  when  the  company  were 
assembled  in  the  library,  Wyatt  said :  "  My 
story  is  really  very  short  and  quite  dismal.  Can't 
we  do  something  a  little  cheerful  first,  before  I 
plunge  you  all  in  gloom?  Miss  Carr-Wynstede, 
cannot  you  suggest  something?  " 

"  While  you  were  all  talking  at  dinner  of 
epitaphs  and  things  appertaining,"  answered 
Muriel,  "  I  was  reminded  of  a  sort  of  game  we 
have  sometimes  played  at  home.  Games  and 
epitaphs  do  not  seem  to  belong  together,  and 
perhaps  this  is  not  precisely  what  Mr.  Wyatt 
means  by  something  cheerful." 

"  Do  tell  us  your  game,  and  let  us  play  it," 
they  all  exclaimed. 

"  You  must  furnish  paper  and  pencils  then, 
and  let  us  sit  at  the  big  round  table,  dear  Mrs. 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        145 

Temple.  And  in  the  first  place,  it  is  really  no 
game  at  all.  I  think  papa  invented  it  one 
evening  when  \ve  were  a  Christmas  party  in  the 
country  and  had  exhausted  all  ordinary  amuse 
ments.  You  may  find  it  very  tiresome.  It  is 
just  this :  We  took  some  well-known  verse  of 
poetry,  and  each  one  of  us  tried  to  write  it 
down  in  other  words,  preserving  the  sense. 
Somehow  epitaphs  seemed  to  lend  themselves 
better  than  other  things  to  this  trial  of  wits ;  and 
the  reason  I  thought  of  it  at  dinner  was  because 
the  first  verse  we  took  was  Tennyson's  epitaph 
on  Sir  John  Franklin  in  Westminster  Abbey." 

"  Let  us  take  the  very  same,  and  see  what  we 
can  do  with  it !  "  exclaimed  Margaret.  "  I  re 
member  it  begins  with  a  ringing,  '  Not  here  !  ' 
Let  me  see,  how  does  it  go  on?  " 

"You  will  let  me  only  listen,  won't  you?" 
said  Muriel.  "  I  am  sure  you  will  all  be  much 
cleverer  at  it  than  we  were;  and  I  have  got  what 
they  all  wrote  so  jumbled  in  my  head,  I  could 
never  write  an  original  line,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  I  am  too  scared  at  the  idea  of  what 
is  before  me,  to  think  of  anything  else,"  said 

10 


146        A  Week  away  from  Time. 

Wyatt;  "  so  please  count  me  out,  too.  Let  me 
listen  \vith  Miss  Carr-Wynstede."  And  he 
drew  his  chair  near  hers. 

"Are  not  these  the  lines?"  said  the  Pro 
fessor,  — 

"  '  Not  here  !     The  white  North  hath  thy  bones,  and  thou, 

Heroic  sailor-soul, 

Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage  now, 
Toward  no  earthly  pole.'  " 

"It  is  a  noble  stanza,  is  it  not?  "said  Mar 
garet.  "  It  seems  almost  audacious  to  tamper 
with  it." 

"  Not  at  all !  "  exclaimed  Bowdoin.  "  Let  us 
pull  it  to  pieces  before  we  attempt  to  put  it 
together  again.  The  lines  are  well  enough,  but 
I  think  an  inscription  addressed  to  the  general 
public  should  be  comprehensible  at  a  glance. 
Now,  the  words  '  voy-age '  and  '  to-ward  '  arc  so 
commonly  pronounced  as  monosyllables  that 
one  boggles  at  them  before  discovering  that  an 
unusual  pronunciation  is  wanted  here.  Then 
there  is  the  '  passing.'  Who  ever  speaks  of '  pass 
ing'  on  a  voyage?  The  idea  is  poetical,  if  you 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        147 

will,  but  it  takes  too  much  time  to  get  at  it. 
Sight-seers  doing  the  Abbey  are  naturally  in  a 
hurry;  you  must  hit  them  on  the  wing,  or  lose 
your  shot.  Now,  notice  the  precision  with 
which  my  Barnstable  County  rhymer  hits  the 
mark.  First,  we  have  the  bold  personation  of 
his  deceased  friend,  then  that  startling  invita 
tion  to  the  passer-by,  and  finally  the  lift  to  the 
skies  where  the  imagination  is  at  liberty  to 
shape  things  as  it  chooses.  No ;  I  don't  say 
that  my  man's  production  is  better  poetry,  but 
I  do  say  that  it  better  answers  the  purpose  for 
which  inscriptions  are  cut  upon  gravestones." 

"  I  object  to  your  objections,"  said  the  Pro 
fessor.  "  As  to  the  pronunciation  of  the  two 
words,  it  is  by  no  means  unusual  in  poetry;  and 
your  tourist  must  be  in  a  desperate  hurry  (Lord 
Tennyson  might  well  urge  that  his  epitaph  was 
not  intended  for  hurried  tourists),  or  have  a  very 
poor  ear,  if  he  does  not  detect  the  reading  di 
rectly.  Your  stricture  upon  the  word  'passing' 
strikes  me  as  wholly  hypercritical.  Put  the 
words  in  prose,  and  see :  '  Thou  art  passing 
toward  no  earthly  pole  ['  as  thou  sailest,'  under- 


148        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

stood]  on  thine  happier  voyage.'  I  insist  that 
this  is  clear.  And  you  make  no  allowance  for 
the  difficult  conditions  under  which  the  poet 
wrote.  Suppose  the  late  Dean  Stanley  had 
applied  to  you  for  lines  in  verse  upon  Sir  John 
Franklin,  and  requested  you  to  put  in  the  fact 
that  he  is  not  buried  under  his  monument,  as  is 
usually  the  case  in  Westminster  Abbey !  I 
wonder  what  sort  of  poetry  he  would  have 
got!" 

"  Probably  no  poetry  at  all,  as  I  profess  no 
gift  in  that  direction ;  but  he  would  have  got 
something  not  amenable  to  my  criticism  upon 
what  he  did  get,"  said  Bowdoin  decidedly. 

"As,  for  example,"  said  Margaret.  "Come, 
here  is  a  pencil,  some  paper,  and  a  book  to 
write  upon." 

"  Keep  still  for  a  moment,  and  I  will  try," 
replied  her  brother-in-law.  "  Let  me  see  — 
who  will  give  me  a  rhyme  to  'freed'?  Miss 
Carr-YVynstede,  come  to  the  rescue,  since  you 
got  us  into  the  scrape." 

"There  is  'steed,'"  said  Muriel,  "and  'reed/ 
'  bead,'  '  indeed' — " 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        1 49 

"  '  Indeed  '  will  do.  Now,  then,  what  do  you 
say  to  this  ?  — 

'Explorer  of  our  Western  Zones, 
On  frozen  shores  thy  soul  was  freed: 
While  drift  the  snows  about  thy  bones, 
Thou  sail'st  on  seas  unknown  indeed.'  " 

"  I  don't  like  the  touch  of  agnosticism  in  the 
last  line,"  said  Margaret.  "  It  seems  out  of 
place  in  a  Christian  temple." 

"  Your  first  line  is  vastly  inferior  to  Tenny 
son's,"  decreed  the  Professor.  "  We  miss  the 
arresting  effect  of  those  two  opening  words. 
They  are  the  last  things  one  expects  to  see,  and 
impressive  accordingly." 

"  I  did  n't  know  we  undertook  to  make 
lines  superior,  or  equal  to  Tennyson's,"  said 
Bowdoin  ;  "  I  only  said  I  would  write  some 
thing  which  should  not  have  the  same  faults  I 
found  in  his.  Suppose  you  illustrate  your  crit 
icism  of  my  effort  by  one  of  your  own." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  replied  Kirkland.  "  But 
pray  all  of  you  be  patient.  It  may  take  me 
some  time." 


150        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Time  is  as  abundant  as  sand  on  the  Cape," 
said  Ralph.  "  Take  some  paper,  and  we  shall 
not  watch  the  clock." 

After  a  few  moments'  silence  the  Professor 
said  he  was  ready,  though  he  had  not  been  able 
to  achieve  an  initiatory  shock  which  should 
tingle  the  news  to  his  o\vn  satisfaction. 

"  '  Sail  northward  !     Thou  shall  find  his  grave, 
Without  a  monument  or  name. 
Here,  honored  with  our  Wise  and  Brave, 
A  grateful  nation  guards  his  fame.'  " 

"Very  good,"  acknowledged  Bowdoin.  "Still, 
I  think  you  are  over-confident  in  predicting 
poor  Sir  John's  place  of  sepulture,  with  such 
very  definite  directions  as  to  where  we  're  to 
look  for  it:  'Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the 
next  turning,  but  at  the  next  turning  of  all, 
on  your  left  ;  marry,  at  the  next  turning,  turn 
of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the 
Jew's  house.'  Launcelot's  directions  to  his  fa 
ther  are,  to  be  sure,  almost  as  bewildering;  but 
then,  he  did  not  commit  himself  to  the  asser 
tion  that  Shylock's  house  would  be  found." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.         1 5 1 

"  I  think  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin,  "  that 
it  might  be  well  to  localize  the  spot  more  de 
cidedly.  Why  not  introduce  some  Northern 
flora  or  fauna?  You  lose  your  way  too  easily 
among  those  Arctic  snow-drifts." 

"  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  flora  you  could 
get  to  grow  there ;  and  as  to  the  fauna,  remem 
ber  that  a  single  stanza  docs  not  give  room  to 
run  much  of  a  menagerie,"  said  the  Professor. 

"  Something  in  that  way  might  be  done,"  per 
sisted  the  lady.  "  Wait  a  bit,  and  I  will  prove  it 
Here,  now,  here  come  my  characteristic  beasts: 

'  The  white  bear  and  the  Arctic  fox 
Are  mourners  by  thy  Northern  tomb ; 
England  her  Abbey-door  unlocks, 
To  give  thy  fame  its  fitting  room.' " 

"  You  have  brought  in  your  fauna  with  a 
realism  that  makes  one  shiver,"  exclaimed 
Ralph.  "  But  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  should 
these  simple  wanderers  wear  crape  upon  their 
left  legs  for  the  leader  of  an  expedition  that  was 
devoted  to  shooting  and  trapping  them?  Come 
back  to  Shakespeare  again,  and  get  your  bear 
ings.  A  true  poet  would  have  perceived  that 


152        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

those  poor  innocents  must  have  regarded  Sir 
John  and  his  comrades  as 

'  Mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what  's  worse, 
To  fright  the  animals  and  kill  them  up 
In  their  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place.' 

Mourners  by  his  tomb  indeed!  If  you  en 
dow  your  poor  beasts  with  human  sentiments, 
let  them  at  least  be  such  as  they  would  natu 
rally  entertain.  May  I  amend  your  second  line 
thus : — 

'  The  white  bear  and  the  Arctic  fox 
Dance  gayly  by  thy  Northern  tomb  '  ?  " 

"Ah!"  said  Bell,  "any  poetry  can  be  killed 
by  whipping  out  a  carpenter's  rule  to  take  its 
measure.  Such  a  miserable  literalist  as  you  are 
should  be  kept  out  of  Westminster  Abbey  by 
act  of  Parliament.  Of  course  it  would  be  easy 
to  meet  your  objection  by  a  change  which 
would  leave  dignity  in  the  verse.  If  we  read 
the  line 

'  Roam  scathless  by  thy  Northern  tomb,'1 

nobody  could  demur  except  those  who  had 
the  good  taste  to  see  that  it  was  better  as  I  first 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        153 

wrote  it.  But  come,  Sir  Critic,  give  us  your 
version,  and  tell  us  just  how  the  lines  should 
have  been  written." 

"  The  facts  should  be  expressed  boldly,  and 
in  the  fewest  possible  words,"  said  Ralph.  "  It 
should  be  something  with  a  quaint,  old-fash 
ioned  air,  to  harmonize  with  the  surroundings. 
Bowdoin's  last-century  poet  of  the  Falmouth 
churchyard  would  know  just  what  to  say.  I 
will  give  you  something  in  his  style  —  well,  like 
this,  for  instance,  — 

'  Shrouded  in  snows, 
His  bones  repose ; 
Here  with  the  great, 
He  keepeth  state.' 

There  is  the  whole  story  at  a  glance.  The 
authorities  at  the  Abbey  should  be  asked  to 
adopt  it.  Then  we  should  get  rid  of  the  ob 
jectionable  'voy-age'  and  'to-ward,'  and  of  the 
doubtful  '  passing.'  " 

"  Don't  take  my  criticisms  too  seriously,"  said 
Bowdoin.  "I  rather  meant  them  as  part  of  the 
play.  The  maxim  in  mechanics  that  nothing  is 
stronger  than  its  weakest  part,  must  be  reversed 


[54        -d  Week  away  from   Time. 

in  poetry.  A  strong  couplet  or  stanza  will  in 
vigorate  a  weak  environment.  Let  us  confess 
that  Tennyson's  first  two  lines  are  perfect.  The 
Northern  burial  is  petrified,  as  it  were,  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  and  'heroic  sailor-soul'  is 
finely  descriptive.  Now,  Margaret,  it  is  your 
turn.  Why  is  n't  Mrs.  Chauncey  here  this 
evening?  She  would  have  given  us  something 
delightful,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  She  sent  a  note  just  before  dinner,  saying 
that  her  face  was  so  burned  by  her  sea-voyage 
she  was  not  fit  to  appear,"  said  Margaret.  "  I 
am  sure  she  would  have  written  better  lines 
than  I  can  possibly  evolve.  She  has  quite  a 
poetic  vein,  though  it  runs  a  little  crookedly 
and  unexpectedly."  Margaret  took  a  pencil 
and  presently  read  aloud  — 

"  '  Here,  in  this  storied,  consecrated  Fane 
Thou  art  not  laid ;  yet  we,  on  bended  knee, 
Thank  God  that,  dying  on  the  Northern  main, 
Thou  livest  where  "  there  shall  be  no  more  sea." ' 

Now,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  beg,  no  criticism  of  my 
lines;  not  that  I  could  not  bear  it  as  bravely 
as  you  have  all  done,  but  because  it  is  high 


A    Week  away  from   Time.        155 

time  we  heard  Mr.  Wyatt's  story.  Then  let  us 
agree  that  since  none  of  the  present  company 
were  within  reach  at  the  time,  Dean  Stanley  did 
well  to  ask  Tennyson  to  commemorate  Sir  John 
Franklin  in  Westminster  Abbey !  So  now,  dear 
Mr.  Yachtsman,  your  story,  if  you  please." 

They  left  the  table  where  they  had  been 
writing,  and  grouped  themselves  around  the 
big  fireplace,  in  which  a  cheerful  wood-fire  was 
blazing,  in  various  attitudes  of  comfortable  ex 
pectancy.  Wyatt  betook  himself  and  his  manu 
script  to  a  small  table  where  was  a  shaded 
lamp,  and  in  a  sort  of  half-desperate,  half-depre 
cating  voice,  said,  — 

"  How  I  wish  I  too  had  brought  a  translation, 
as  Bowdoin  did,  and  so  had  braved  your  dis 
pleasure  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  your 
contempt.  When  I  received  Mrs.  Temple's 
delightful  invitation  to  make  one  of  this  party, 
I  was  so  bent  upon  acceptance,  that  I  forgot,  or 
thought  lightly,  of  her  command  to  bring  a 
story  with  me.  As  if  one  kept  stories  in  one's 
bureau  drawers  with  one's  pocket-handker 
chiefs  !  As  I  was  painfully  trying  to  conjure 


156        A   Week  away  from    Time. 

up  some  ideas  from  which  a  story  might  be 
made,  sitting  in  my  office  in  Court  Street,  star 
ing  vacantly  at  my  window-panes,  I  glanced 
over  to  the  dust-thickened  windows  of  my  friend 
Button,  about  whose  apparently  colorless  life  I 
had  sometimes  pleased  myself  with  weaving  a 
vague  romance, — why,  I  cannot  say,  except 
that  the  very  absence  of  romance  in  his  outward 
existence  provoked  me  to  believe  that  the  real 
man  carried  about  with  him  unrevealed  possi 
bilities  of  sentiment.  So  I  set  myself  to  think 
ing  what  sort  of  tale  he  would  have  told  if  he 
had  been  called  upon  by  the  gracious  lady 
whom  we  all  obey;  and  I  shall  call  my  sketch 


THE   LAWYER'S    STORY. 

MY  tale  is  a  short  one,  and  soon  told.  The  life  of 
a  middle-aged  and  rather  rusty  lawyer  does  not  incite 
to  much  incident  to  break  its  monotony.  When  the 
event  occurred  which  has  been,  and  will  be,  the  domi 
nant  one  of  my  life,  I  was  living  in  a  street  about  a 
mile  from  the  immediate  city,  chosen  by  me  because 
it  was  apart.  The  lack  of  relatives  and  friends  made 


The  Lawyers  Story.  157 

me  shrink  from  the  numbers  of  mere  every-day  ac 
quaintance,  and  the  quiet  hours  for  reading  after  my 
day's  work,  in  my  remote  chambers,  were  more  sooth 
ing  than  the  sounds  of  evening  bustle  and  entertain 
ment  which  by  contrast  would  have  reminded  me  still 
more  forcibly  of  my  own  solitariness.  Across  the 
street  and  opposite  my  windows  there  stood  far  back 
from  the  sidewalk  an  old  house,  somewhat  weather- 
beaten  with  its  hundred  years,  and  with  a  charm 
that  often  attaches  itself  to  an  old  building,  but  with 
an  air  of  neglect  and  almost  squalor  about  it.  A  long 
flagstone  walk,  which  led  to  the  high  steps,  was  bor 
dered  on  either  side  by  a  tangled  garden,  in  which  I 
sometimes  now  linger  a  little  ;  for  even  after  these  many 
years  it  has  with  its  subtle  odors  of  box  and  southern 
wood  the  power  to  lead  me  back  through  the  cleared 
paths  of  memory  to  that  faint-remembered  past. 

Only  a  few  rooms  of  the  large  house  were  occupied, 
and  these  by  an  elderly  lady  and  her  granddaughter 
and  one  old  servant.  The  granddaughter,  a  pretty, 
fragile  child  of  eighteen,  whose  chill,  unchildlike  life 
had  been  made  as  colorless  and  drooping  as  the  pale 
white  roses  in  her  garden,  where  I  mostly  saw  her, 
awoke  in  me  much  tender  interest,  and  a  sorrow  that 
anything  so  lovely  and  so  young  should  be  so  solitary ; 
and  I  found  myself  instinctively  looking  forward  to 


158        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

her  pathetic  little  smile  of  welcome  as  I  went  my  way 
at  morning,  and  in  the  coming  back  at  twilight.  A 
few  trifling  acts  of  neighborliness  on  my  part  to  the 
grandmother  had  already  led  to  a  slight  acquaintance, 
though  the  stiff  formality  of  the  elderly  lady  did  not 
invite  to  much  intimacy ;  yet  even  that  bleak  back 
ground  could  not  altogether  prevent  the  girl's  sweet 
youth  from  springing  up  in  spite  of  it,  with  the  same 
gentle  force  which  sent  the  snowdrops  pushing  through 
the  barren  earth  in  the  old  garden.  On  my  way  to  my 
office  one  fair  June  morning  I  saw  on  the  bills  that 
the  opera  for  that  evening  was  to  be  "  Martha,"  and  a 
sudden  impulse  emboldened  me  and  made  me  deter 
mine  that  my  little  girl  should  be  taken  out  of  her  dull 
surroundings,  at  least  for  once,  and  be  gladdened  as 
well  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  felt  almost  young 
as  I  stole  home  earlier  than  my  wont  —  a  little  guiltily, 
taking  my  unusual  pleasure  somewhat  under  protest, 
and  went  to  ask  permission  of  the  grandmother.  The 
request  was  granted,  and  an  hour  later  we  were  on  our 
way,  and  my  pleasure  had  already  begun,  in  seeing  a 
look  of  expectant  happiness  on  her  serious  face.  The 
charm  of  the  music  of  the  opera,  and  the  old,  old 
story  forever  new,  deepened  the  questioning  outlook 
of  her  grave,  sweet  eyes.  I  wandered  away  in  my 
thoughts  from  the  scenes  enacted  before  me,  and 


The  Lawyers  Story.  159 

made  others  for  myself,  wherein  she  should  be  the 
heroine,  and  a  love  far  tenderer  and  more  passionate 
than  the  lover's  on  the  stage  should  be  given  to  her, 
and  I,  whose  dull  role  in  life  was  so  nearly  played  out, 
would  be  content  to  be  only  a  looker-on. 

The  memory  of  that  one  festal  evening,  and  the 
pleasant  talks  we  had  afterwards  about  it,  served  to 
fill  many  an  hour  of  the  long  hot  days,  which  had  now 
reached  into  July.  The  burning  sun  and  drought  began 
to  tell  strongly  on  the  old  garden,  its  look  of  desolate- 
ness  all  the  greater  since  I  had  lately  missed  seeing 
the  faithful  little  hand  tending  the  straggling  shrubs 
and  stalks,  and  trying  to  lure  them  back  into  their  old 
grace.  Growing  somewhat  impatient  at  her  continued 
absence,  I  stopped  one  morning  at  the  door  to  ask  for 
her,  and  was  told  by  the  servant  that  she  was  ill,  and 
had  for  some  time  been  drooping.  The  doctor  whom 
they  called  in  said  that  the  intensity  of  the  prolonged 
heat  had  prostrated  her,  and  that  he  feared  fever. 
Depressed  by  the  account,  I  went  on  to  my  office,  to 
find  there  a  message  from  a  far-off  connection  to  the 
effect  that  I  should  appear  in  person  in  the  small  town 
of  W.  to  settle  a  dispute  which  had  arisen  from  the 
will  of  a  relative.  It  would  take  me  two  days  to  reach 
there,  and  as  the  business  to  be  settled  might  occupy 
many  more,  I  must  start  at  once  in  order  to  be  back 


160        A  Week  away  from  Time. 

in  time  to  meet  other  engagements.  I  had  only  time  to 
hurry  to  my  rooms  to  make  my  preparations  and  be  off. 
There  was  not  much  for  me  to  do  ;  a  word  to  the 
woman  who  served  as  housekeeper  and  servant  to  look 
after  my  few  belongings,  and  I  was  ready.  I  should 
have  gone  my  way  with  a  lighter  heart  if  I  could  have 
carried  with  me  a  word  from  my  little  girl,  and  could 
have  seen  her  waiting  there  with  her  smile  of  farewell. 
I  felt  selfishly  thankful  that  I  was  going  to  new  scenes 
which  might  help  to  weaken  the  sense  of  sadness. 

I  had  not  anticipated  pleasure  or  much  interest  in 
meeting  with  these  relatives  altogether  unknown  to  me, 
and  so  the  surprise  was  agreeable  to  find  myself  in 
the  midst  of  a  little  colony  very  hospitably  inclined. 
The  business  capacity  with  which  I  was  invested  as 
sumed  to  them  in  their  narrow  and  local  lives  a  vast 
importance,  and  their  friendliness  made  my  ten  days' 
stay  most  pleasant ;  and  in  leaving  I  felt  I  was  not 
altogether  so  lonely  an  object  as  before.  But  in  the 
late  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  as  I  stepped  from 
the  station  into  the  noisy  town,  which  seemed  un- 
endurably  heated  and  stifling  in  contrast  to  the  cool 
quiet  of  the  country,  the  full  weight  of  solitariness  fell 
upon  me.  I  walked  along  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
until  the  noises  became  fewer,  and  the  stillness  of  a 
deserted  city  seemed  to  be  brooding.  I  turned  into 


The  Lawyers  Story.  161 

the  familiar  street,  and  in  the  accustomed  way  looked 
up  at  the  house  standing  gray  in  the  waning  light,  to 
discern  dimly,  perchance,  some  glimpse  of  a  face 
which  in  all  that  city  would  be  the  only  one  to  brighten 
at  my  return.  Disappointed  in  not  seeing  her  there, 
I  reached  my  door,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and 
went  up  to  my  room,  where  the  cheerlessness  and 
gloom  struck  me  as  never  before.  I  threw  open  the 
windows  and  lighted  a  candle.  A  high  south-wind 
was  rising,  and  the  draught  sweeping  through  scat 
tered  the  papers  on  my  writing-table,  and  I  began  to 
gather  them  together,  mechanically  sorting  them,  stop 
ping  in  my  work  to  listen  to  a  far-off  street  band,  the 
strains  of  which  were  lifted  by  the  wind  now  and  then 
and  brought  up  to  my  window.  The  music  was  only 
an  old  hackneyed  air  from  "  Martha,"  but  it  sent  me 
back  to  the  bright  glad  evening  I  had  passed  with 
the  sweet,  grateful  child  who  might  perhaps  be  still 
lying  ill  in  that  gloomy  chamber  in  the  old  house. 
"  As  soon  as  I  have  tied  up  the  papers,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  I  will  go  over  and  find  out  about  her."  The  wind  at 
that  moment  blowing  open  the  door  behind  me,  I 
reached  my  hand  back  to  shut  it,  when  it  resisted 
my  touch  and  was  gently  pushed  forward.  I  turned, 
and  there  before  me  I  saw  her  standing.  My  first 
impulse  was  one  of  relief  and  joy,  for  the  smile  and 


1 62        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

light  which  rested  on  her  face  told  me  she  was  well 
again.  The  frank,  calm  eyes  looked  into  mine,  and 
yet  as  I  tried  to  meet  their  look  I  saw  the  gaze  went 
far  beyond,  and  in  an  instant  the  thought  sprang  to  my 
brain  that  she  was  in  the  power  of  somnambulism. 
Else,  why  should  she  be  here?  Every  question  van 
ished  before  the  one  compelling  desire  to  keep  her 
from  sudden  waking,  and  to  lead  her  safely  home. 
She  moved  gently  round  the  room,  softly  sighing,  and 
once  she  stopped  and  leaned  upon  the  back  of  a  chair, 
folding  her  hands  together,  and  smiling  toward  me, 
but  not  at  me.  Then,  turning,  she  passed  through  the 
open  door,  out  into  the  long  dark  passage-way,  her 
white  wrappings  glimmering  faintly  before  me.  Breath 
lessly  I  followed  her  —  down  into  the  street.  The 
band  was  playing  still  its  "  Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  and 
I  trembled  in  an  anguish  of  fear  lest  it  should  waken 
her.  She  moved  on  before  me,  crossed  the  street,  and 
turned  in  at  the  gate,  and  along  the  flagstone  walk, 
then  up  the  long  flight  of  steps. 

I  thanked  Heaven  that  thus  far  she  was  safe,  and 
stepped  in  front  of  her  to  strike  the  knocker,  when  — 
a  light  breath  of  wind  lifted  something  that  rose,  and 
fell,  and  fluttered  against  the  whiteness  of  her  dress. 
I  saw  that  it  was  a  knot  of  something  black.  In  terror 
less  the  nameless  horror  which  swept  through  me 


.  The  Lawyers  Story.  163 

should  reach  her  too,  I  turned  my  head  toward  her. 
There  was  no  one  there  !  In  a  frenzy  I  struck  the 
heavy  knocker,  and  a  whole  eternity  seemed  to  roll 
over  me  while  I  waited  for  the  slow  footsteps  to  reach 
the  door. 

I  was  conscious  only  of  gasping  her  name,  and  of 
hearing  some  one  whisper,  "  She  is  dead,  sir.  She 
died  this  afternoon." 


Non  avea  pur  natura  ivi  dipinto, 
Ma  di  soavita  di  viille  odori 
Vi facea  un  incognito  indistinto. 

DANTE,  //  Purgatorio. 

What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  best  discerned, 
We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ! 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind,  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity,  — 
And  heaven  just  prove  tJiat  I  and  she 
Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride  ? 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


FOURTH   DAY. 

MRS.  NYE  came  to  the  White  House  just  after 
breakfast  was  over,  and  found  Margaret  and  her 
friends  sitting  under  the  linden-trees,  Mrs.  Bow- 
doin  in  the  hammock,  the  Professor  cutting  the 
pages  of  the  last  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  Margaret 
talking  with  her  brother,  who  had  just  come 
from  the  stable,  Muriel  busy  with  a  piece  of 
embroidery,  while  Charlie  Wyatt  seemed  ab 
sorbed  in  watching  the  movements  of  her  white 
hands  and  deft  fingers;  Mr.  Bowdoin  smoked 
his  cigar,  and  looked  as  serenely  content  as  did 
Erin  and  Joujou.  "  Quite  a  stranger !  quite  a 
stranger  !  "  remarked  Polly  in  a  deep  bass  voice, 
which  she  always  assumed  when  she  wanted  to 
be  very  polite. 

"  Polly  speaks  the  truth ;  you  have  not  been 
to  sec  us  for  a  long  time,"  said  Margaret,  get 
ting  up  and  going  to  meet  her  old  friend  with 
outstretched  hands.  "But  your  time  is  too  valu- 


1 68        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

able  to  waste  on  a  parcel  of  idlers  like  ourselves, 
I  know." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Nye,  smiling  all 
over.  "  I  just  admire  to  come  here,  and  you 
know  that,  dear  Mis'  Temple;  but  there,  I  says 
to  father  this  mornin',  '  I  have  n't  been  over 
lately,'  says  I,  'because  it's  just  here:  they're  to 
breakfast  about  the  time  I  'm  gettin'  my  dinner 
ready,  and  then  they  go  off  somewheres,  and  by 
the  time  they  get  back  it's  my  supper-time,  and 
their  dinner  (though  I  did  say,  it  seemed  to  me 
just  callin'  things  out  o'  their  names,  but  I  guess 
that's  because  I'm  so  old-fashioned),  and  so  it 
goes.'  But  to-day  father  wanted  me  to  come  and 
bring  you  some  lovely  fresh  eggs  our  hens  have 
just  laid,  and  some  butter  of  my  yesterday's 
churnin',  and  he  wanted  me  to  say  to  the  gen 
tlemen  that  there  's  a  big  school  o'  bluefish  right 
out  in  the  bay,  and  he  thought  they  might  like 
to  go  after  'em.  He  hasn't  known  'em  be  round 
here  so  thick  for  ever  so  long.  He  's  goin*  out 
in  his  cat,  and  he  '11  be  pleased  to  take  any  of 
you  with  him,  if  Mis'  Temple  don't  want  her 
boat  to  get  all  fished  up." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        1 69 

"  Tell  the  Captain,  please,  that  I  '11  go  with 
him  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  for  one,"  said 
Mr.  Bowdoin. 

The  others  did  not  speak  for  a  moment;  then 
Margaret  said,  "We  were  just  arranging  a  riding- 
party  when  you  came,  Mrs.  Nye.  I  find  that 
you  can  ride  my  mare  Magali,  Muriel;  she  hurt 
her  foot  slightly  last  week,  but  she  is  all  right 
now.  I  shall  take  Cranberry,  the  horse  I  usually 
drive  in  the  phaeton ;  he  is  a  delightful  saddle- 
horse.  You  shall  have'  Mahomet  Bey,  Mr.  Kirk- 
land,  I  know  you  will  like  him ;  and  Ralph  has 
his  own  mare,  Black  Pearl.  I  was  just  consulting 
with  Ralph,  Mr.  Wyatt,  as  to  whether  Hassan 
Bey,  the  other  one  of  the  pair,  would  carry  you  ; 
he's  quite  a  good  horse  in  the  saddle,  but  —  " 

"  Thanks,  dear  Mrs.  Temple,"  said  Wyatt 
quickly,  "  you  are  too  good  to  trouble  yourself 
about  me,  but  I  would  not  spoil  the  quartet 
for  the  world.  Tell  your  husband,  Mrs.  Nye, 
that  I  will  hunt  the  bluefish  with  joy,  in  his 
good  company.  We  will  be  ready  at  his  call. 
I  must  go  on  board  my  boat  first  to  give  some 
orders,"  he  added,  "  so  I  will  bid  you  ladies 


1 70        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

good-morning,  and  wish  you  a  delightful  ride. 
I  shall  give  the  Captain  and  Bowdoin  lunch  on 
board  the  '  Hope/  Mrs.  Temple,  for  I  know  we 
shall  not  be  here  in  time  for  yours ;  I  have  been 
bluefishing  with  Tom  before  to-day."  He  went 
towards  Muriel,  and  bending  over  her  said  a  few 
words  in  a  low  voice ;  she  blushed  and  looked 
rather  distressed,  but  said  aloud,  "  Don't  forget 
to  bring  the  song  you  promised  to  show  me ; 
you  said  you  had  it  on  board  your  boat." 

"  I  will  not  forget,"  he  replied,  and  strode  off 
through  the  garden,  ran  down  the  bank,  and 
was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

"  Those  broad  shoulders  of  Antinous'  seem 
to  wear  an  injured  or  indignant  air,"  said  Mr. 
Bowdoin,  with  a  look  of  assumed  innocence. 
"  What  can  be  the  matter,  I  wonder !  " 

When  Mrs.  Nye  had  gone,  Margaret  said,  "  I 
am  really  very  sorry  about  Mr.  Wyatt;  but  five 
is  an  awkward  number,  and  I  knew  you  would 
not  ride,  Bell.  As  to  Tom,  when  there  is  a  blue- 
fish  within  reach,  there  is  he  in  pursuit  always. 
After  all,  yesterday  was  Mr.  Wyatt's  field-day ; 
and  perhaps  we  will  go  for  a  moonlight  sail  this 


A    Week  away  from    Time.         i  7 1 

evening,  if  he  asks  us.  That  will  settle  things 
nicely."  Margaret  really  looked  troubled.  She 
could  not  bear  that  every  one  should  not  be 
quite  contented  and  happy;  but  that  is  not 
always  possible,  even  at  Fair  Harbor. 

"  What  a  beautiful  creature  your  mare  is !  " 
said  the  Professor,  as  he  and  Margaret  struck 
into  the  woods,  and  along  the  western  shore 
towards  Falmouth.  "And  how  did  you  happen 
to  name  her  '  Magali '  ?  It  is  the  name  of  the 
heroine  in  '  Mireio,'  is  it  not?" 

"  I  had  a  horse  at  Cannes,  years  ago,"  answered 
Margaret,  "  that  I  christened  '  Magali.'  I  read 
'Mireio'  there  for  the  first  time  in  the  poet's  own 
enchanting  country,  and  in  his  own  tongue,  with 
the  help  of  Miss  Preston's  delightful  translation. 
So  as  this  horse  really  looks  a  good  deal  like  my 
pretty  Provencal  favorite,  I  call  her  too  'Magali.' 
We  went  to  Algiers  from  Cannes,  and  then  to 
Rome  ;  it  was  the  winter  —  "  Margaret  stopped, 
and  her  voice  faltered  —  "you  remember  — 

"Yes, "said  Kirkland  earnestly,  "I  remember; 
as  if  I  could  ever  forget !  "  And  they  rode  on 
for  some  time  silently. 


172        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

Margaret's  husband  (as  has  been  already  said) 
died  in  Algiers  in  the  winter  of  which  she  spoke. 
Her  brother  went  out  to  her  and  induced  her 
to  go  to  Rome  with  him,  where  they  remained 
four  months,  and  where,  notwithstanding  her 
seclusion,  she  saw  Professor  Kirkland  often,  as 
he  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Ralph.  She  had 
not  seen  him  from  that  time  until  now,  for  it 
had  always  so  happened  that  when  Margaret 
was  at  home  he  had  been  away.  He  was  a 
great  traveller,  and  had  just  now  returned  from 
a  voyage  round  the  world.  He  had  resumed  his 
place  at  Harvard,  and  seemed  disposed  to  stay 
at  home  for  the  present.  Nothing  has  been  said 
of  his  personal  appearance,  for  when  Charlie 
Wyatt  was  about,  his  beauty  was  really  so  bril 
liant  and  so  compelling,  that  it  was  the  main  fact 
in  the  landscape.  Yet  Kirkland  was  a  most  dis 
tinguished  looking  man,  —  the  sort  of  man  of 
whom  it  would  always  be  asked,  wherever  he 
went,  "Who  is  he?"  He  was  tall,  and  strongly 
built,  with  dark  eyes,  very  deep  and  penetrating ; 
his  hair  and  moustache  were  slightly  tinged  with 
gray,  but  he  was  in  the  prime  and  fullest  vigor 


A  Week  away  from  Time.        173 

of  manhood.  His  eyes  could  put  on  a  very 
tender  look  sometimes,  especially  when  he  was 
with  little  children,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond, 
and  who  always  worshipped  him.  He  had  a 
rarely  beautiful  smile,  which  lighted  up  what 
might  else  have  been  rather  a  severe  counte 
nance,  and  a  peculiar  charm  of  manner;  yet 
so  far  as  any  one  knew,  he  had  never  cared 
specially  for  any  woman,  and  the  impression 
generally  prevailed  that  he  never  meant  to 
marry. 

We  will  leave  them  threading  the  narrow 
woodpaths,  where  sometimes  the  horses  had  no 
room  to  go  abreast,  and  follow  Ralph  and 
Muriel,  who  had  chosen  other  paths  to  the 
same  end,  as  the  four  had  promised  to  meet  at 
Long  Pond  at  a  certain  hour. 

"  How  wonderful  this  autumn  color  is !  "  ex 
claimed  Muriel,  as  they  came  out  of  the  thicket 
to  a  piece  of  undulating  ground  where  pine- 
trees  had  been  cut  down,  and  where  the  shrub 
(or  scrub)  oak  on  either  side  of  the  road  made 
a  rich  glow  of  every  shade  of  scarlet,  crimson, 
and  tawny  russet  among  brilliant  green  leaves. 


1 74        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  there  was  a  very 
carnival  and  passion  of  color.  There  were 
hedges  of  barberry,  with  leaves  stained  red, 
and  graceful  sprays  hung  full  with  coral  fruit; 
golden-rod  and  purple  asters  filled  the  ways; 
the  foliage  of  the  grape-vine  was  turning  am 
ber  and  orange,  and  its  sweet  penetrating  scent 
was  more  subtle  and  delicious  than  wine ;  bay- 
berry  and  sweet  fern  sent  up  their  spicy  fra 
grance  like  incense  crushed  out  of  them  as  the 
riders  passed. 

"  Yes,  it  is  marvellous,"  rejoined  Ralph. 
"  Somehow  one  gets  nearer  to  the  color  here, 
one  is  more  thoroughly  of  it,  steeped  in  it, 
than  in  regions  where  the  trees  are  higher.  Mar 
garet  calls  it  taking  a  color-bath  to  come  here 
in  the  autumn;  and  truly  the  expression  is  not 
bad." 

"  It  seems  to  me  all  she  says  is  well  said,  and 
all  she  does  is  well  done,"  replied  Muriel.  "  I 
think  I  have  never  seen  any  one  I  admired  so 
much,  or  could  grow  to  love  more  dearly." 

"She  is  a  dear  creature,  certainly,"  said  Ralph 
heartily,  "and  the  best  sister  a  cranky,  half- 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        175 

savage  sort  of  fellow  like  me  ever  had,  bless 
her !  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  little  touch  of 
heightened  color,  and  a  half-sweet,  half-mis 
chievous  smile,  "  I  can  quite  understand  what 
she  must  be  to  you,  and  how  happy  you  are 
together  ;  and  I  don't  at  all  wonder  that  you 
looked  upon  the  coming  of  an  unknown  stranger 
between  you  two  as  a  '  horrid  nuisance.'  " 

"  Great  heaven  !  "  burst  out  Ralph.  "  Then 
you  did  hear!  I  was  an  insensate  fool  —  a 
brute !  But  I  am  well  punished.  Ah,  I  be 
seech  you,  as  you  are  strong,  be  merciful !  Will 
you,  can  you,  forgive  me?  I  shall  never  forgive 
myself." 

Muriel  murmured  something  about  there 
being  nothing  to  forgive,  and  Ralph  went  on 
impetuously,  — 

"Yes,  I  was  a  brute;  but,  I  repeat,  I  have  been 
well  punished.  To  be  near  you  day  after  day, 
and  hour  by  hour,  every  moment  revealing 
some  new  charm,  some  added  loveliness,  —  to 
grow  to  watch  every  movement  you  make,  every 
word  you  utter,  —  to  have  to  see  you  gracious 


176        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

and  kind  to  others,  and  to  acknowledge  to  myself 
that  they  deserve  your  favor,  while  each  gentle 
word  you  speak  to  me  only  makes  me  hate  and 
despise  myself  the  more,  —  all  this  has  been  a 
bitter  though  a  merited  retribution." 

Muriel  was  going  to  reply,  when  Mrs.  Temple 
and  the  Professor  appeared  beside  them,  emerg 
ing  from  the  woods,  and  spared  her  what  might 
have  been  an  embarrassing  moment. 

"  And  here  we  are  by  the  pond,  and  near  the 
trysting-tree,"  said  Margaret. 

They  rode  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  and  walked 
their  horses  some  way  into  the  clear  water  and 
let  them  drink. 

"Now  we  will  ride  once  round  the  famous  oak- 
tree,  and  to-morrow  we  will  bring  the  others 
here,  that  those  who  say  there  are  no  big  trees 
on  the  Cape  may  be  confounded.  I  have  quite 
forgotten  how  many  feet  it  measures  round  its 
trunk,  or  round  the  turf  its  branches  shadow, 
but  I  know  that  a  large  picnic-party  can  abide 
beneath  its  shade.  Would  it  not  be  nice  to 
come  to-morrow  afternoon  and  let  Bell  read 
her  story  to  us  here?" 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        177 

Captain  Nye  and  his  wife  were  in  the  little 
garden  in  front  of  the  farm-house  as  Margaret 
and  the  Professor  rode  by  on  their  way  home. 
They  had  parted  company  again  from  Muriel 
and  Ralph,  who  were  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and 
the  Professor  had  told  Margaret  his  story.  It 
was  not  a  new  one ;  it  has  been  told  since  the 
world  began,  and  there  shall  be  never  an  end  to 
it  while  the  world  endures. 

He  had  never  cared  for  any  woman  but  her, 
and  he  had  loved  her  ever  since  he  knew  her, 
many  years  ago.  He  had  not  dared  to  tell 
her  so  then,  for  he  "  feared  his  fate  too  much," 
and  she  had  had  no  suspicion.  When  they  were 
in  Rome,  after  her  husband's  death,  he  had  tried 
hard  not  to  let  her  know  the  state  of  his  feel 
ings,  and  had  reproached  himself  severely  that 
he  had  not  always  been  able  to  command  his 
tones  and  speech. 

But  now !  so  little  while,  and  the  universe 
was  changed!  The  miracle  was  worked, — 
the  miracle  which  those  two  hearts  held  as 
precious,  and  whose  transfiguring  power  they 
blessed  as  fervently,  as  if  it  had  bloomed  upon 


178        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

the  earth  that  day,  and  never  before  in  all  the 
days  and  years. 

"  The  long  day  wanes  ;  the  slow  moon  climbs;  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friend, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world." 


Past  we  glide,  and  past  and  past ! 
Why  's  the  Pucci  palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast  f 
Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried. 
Past  we  glide. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

This  night  I'll  spend 

Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end : 

Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon  : 

Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 

There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound ; 

I '//  catch  it  ere  it  comes  to  ground  : 

And  that,  distilled  by  magic  sleights, 

Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprites 

As  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion 

Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion. 

MACBETH. 

//  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet  !  —  and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 
Still  kiss  me  !     Care  not  for  the  cowards  ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


EVENING   OF   FOURTH   DAY. 

"  DID  you  lose  your  way  in  the  woods  this 
afternoon,  Ralph?"  asked  Mrs.  Temple,  as  the 
brother  and  sister  were  sitting  in  the  hall  waiting 
for  their  guests  to  come  down  to  dinner.  "  The 
Professor  and  I  must  have  got  home  fully  half 
an  hour  before  you,  and  we  rode  slowly,  too." 

"  No,  we  did  not  lose  our  way,"  said  Ralph, 
(was  it  the  reflection  of  the  firelight  that  gave 
his  cheek  such  a  glow?)  "  but  you  know  Magali's 
foot  had  been  tender,  and  I  was  not  sure  of 
her  being  shod  just  right,  and  —  and  — 

"  Ah,  Ralph,  dear  boy,  take  care,  take  care ! 
Muriel  has  been  confided  to  me,  and  I  must 
have  no  flirting.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  let 
her  go  on  a  tete-a-tete  ride  at  all.  But  really,  as 
after  all  it  was  a  party  of  four,  and  as  I  supposed 
my  brother  was  to  be  trusted  —  " 

"Do  you  mean  he  is  not?"  asked  Ralph,  a 
trifle  indignant.  "  Surely  you  do  not  imagine 


1 82        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

— • — 

that  I  should  say  a  word  to  Miss  Carr-Wynstedc 
to  which  you  or  any  one  could  object?  Let 
me  see  —  what  did  we  talk  about?  You  were 
one  of  the  principal  subjects  of  conversation, 
as  far  as  I  can  remember.  And  we  did  speak 
of  the  autumn  foliage.  What  were  you  and 
Kirkland  discussing  chiefly,  if  it  comes  to  that? 
Not  my  poor  self,  I  '11  be  bound." 

The  appearance  of  the  others  prevented  any 
more  confessions,  and  all  but  Mrs.  Chauncey 
were  assembled. 

"  Really,  Caroline  Chauncey  is  a  trial  to  those 
who  love  her  ! "  exclaimed  Margaret. 

"  Let 's  sit  down  without  her,"  said  Ralph, 
"  and  give  her  cold  ham  when  she  comes." 

"  At  a  side  table,"  added  Bowdoin. 

"  Poor,  dear  Caroline,  she  sha'  n't,"  said  Mar 
garet,  becoming  soft-hearted  and  a  little  in 
coherent.  "  We  '11  wait  a  little  longer.  Men 
are  always  so  impatient,  especially  for  their 
dinner." 

"Ugh!"  cried  Bowdoin;  "how  those  sand- 
flies  bite  !  I  must  have  brought  them  up  from 
the  beach." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        183 

Early  in  the  week  Margaret  had  been  obliged 
to  confess  that  there  was  an  occasional  sand-fly 
to  be  seen,  or  felt,  down  by  the  water.  "  I  think 
there  were  never  any  until  this  year,"  said  she. 
"  Those  Philadelphians,  the  Shallings,  brought 
them.  They  are  charming  people,  the  Shal 
lings,  but  they  must  have  brought  them.  They 
had  been  at  Long  Branch  before  they  came 
here."  At  this  moment  she  felt  her  instep  was 
being  stung,  and  she  shook  her  skirts.  "  An 
other  of  those  New  Jersey  sand-flies,"  she  said. 

"  I  'm  getting  hungry,"  observed  Ralph. 

"  Mr.  Travers  must  have  a  great  deal  of  food, 
I  believe,"  said  Miss  Carr-Wynstede,  "  or  else  he 
won't  be  able  to  get  through  his  story." 

"My  dear,  he  shall.     Am  I  not  his  sister?" 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Ralph.  "  I  have  been  hungry 
under  your  care  before  now.  Do  you  remember 
a  dreadful  picnic  — 

"  Ralph,"  cried  Margaret,  "New  York  is  mak 
ing  you  —  slowly  but  surely  —  horrid." 

"  Mr.  Travers  confessed  to  me  this  afternoon," 
said  Muriel,  "  that  he  was  awfully  frightened 
about  to-night." 


1 84        A  Week  away  from  Time. 

Charlie  Wyatt  was  standing  by  himself  while 
the  rest  were  talking,  looking  out  at  the  open 
door,  through  which  the  evening  breezes  came 
softly,  blowing  odors  of  honeysuckle  into  the 
hall.  He  might  have  been  thought  to  be 
watching  for  Mrs.  Chauncey,  being  also  im 
patient  for  his  dinner.  But  it  was  not  so.  Mr. 
Bowdoin  had  confided  to  his  wife,  when  he  came 
from  fishing,  that  Wyatt  had  seemed  terribly 
bored  and  preoccupied.  "  He  had  a  fine  blue- 
fish  on  his  hook,"  he  said,  "  and  he  would  n't 
take  the  trouble  to  play  him  and  bring  him 
in;  I  had  to  do  it  for  him.  And  he  called 
me  Miss  Carr-Wynstede  twice.  The  first  time, 
of  course  I  did  n't  hear  him ;  but  the  second,  I 
simply  laughed  at  him.  He  turned  red,  and 
looked  very  much  annoyed,  and  confoundedly 
handsome." 

The  waitress  was  seen  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Tem 
ple,  and  was  heard  to  whisper,  "  The  cook 
says  —  " 

"  And  I  say  so  too,"  cried  Ralph,  jumping 
up,  "  in  spite  of  poor  dear  Caroline  !  " 

"  Mr.  Kirkland,"  said    Margaret,    "  what   are 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        185 

you  reading?"  for  the  Professor  had  taken  a 
pamphlet  from  his  pocket,  and  was  reading  it 
by  the  lamp  on  the  hall  table.  "  It  looks  like  a 
Report.  I  ought  to  have  warned  you  that  for 
this  week  we  allow  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have 
several  waiting  for  me  in  the  post-office.  I  re 
fused  to  take  them  out." 

The  Professor  put  down  the  pamphlet.  "  It 
is  a  Report  of  some  spiritualistic  meetings,  sent 
me  by  a  convinced  friend.  It  contains  the  ac 
count  of  a  young  woman  in  Iowa  who  re 
moved  the  furniture  of  a  large  drawing-room 
to  the  attic  in  five  minutes." 

"  Well,  I  should  have  been  furious  if  they  'd 
done  anything  like  that  in  my  parlor,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowdoin. 

"  Except  the  grand  piano,"  continued  the 
Professor.  "  That  would  not  turn  a  corner  in  the 
second  staircase.  Ten  men  were  employed  to 
get  all  the  things  down  again  the  next  day." 

"  Why  did  n't  they  make  the  medium  do  it 
herself?  "  inquired  Ralph. 

"  She  was  very  delicate,  and  said  she  could 
not  endure  the  strain.  She  is  always  in  bed  for 


1 86        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

a  week  after  these  manifestations.  She  has 
made  five  hundred  converts  in  the  city  of  Des 
Moines  alone." 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Ralph,  "the  whole 
business  makes  me  sick.  It  is  one  of  the  tinsel 
signs  of  the  times,  too.  People  have  read  a  little 
Darwin  and  decided  that  they  cannot  swallow 
the  Bible  any  longer.  They  let  go  of  Chris 
tianity,  or  have  never  had  hold  of  it,  and  go 
scrambling  and  diving  about  for  something  else. 
Your  baker  takes  his  wife  of  a  Sunday  evening 
to  a  hall  where  by  paying  ten  cents  they  can 
see  a  charlatan  go  into  forged  epileptic  fits,  and 
call  it  somebody's  grandmother;  or  if  they  are 
a  little  higher  up  in  the  scale,  or  better  able  to 
afford  it,  they  pay  a  dollar,  and  go  to  a  seance 
at  the  South  End,  where  they  sit  close  to  one 
another  in  the  dark,  and  white  forms  glide  in 
and  out  of  a  cabinet  to  slow  music,  and  some 
poor  lady  among  the  deluded  company  is 
locked  in  the  arms  of  one  of  the  white  forms, 
and  weeps  over  it  with  tears  of  joy,  for  this  her 
only  daughter  was  lost,  and  is  found  again. 
And  a  man  goes  out  from  the  circle  and  stands 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        187 


for  tea  minutes  holding  another  of  the  material 
ized  forms  (very  much  materialized,  I  am  in 
clined  to  think)  in  his  embrace,  calling  her  by 
all  manner  of  endearing  epithets.  A  pitiful 
exhibition  of  human  weakness  and  wickedness. 
As  for  their  esoteric  Buddhism,  that 's  simply 
the  latest  orchid  some  of  the  '  cultured '  people 
have  got  hold  of,  to  have  about  on  their  tables. 
I  'm  tired  of  these  bastard  rubbishy  religions." 

"Why,  Ralph,  how  oddly  you  talk!"  said 
Margaret. 

Just  then  a  voice  was  heard  speaking  outside. 
"  I  could  n't  help  it.  I  went  up  to  dress  an 
hour  and  a  half  ago ;  and  what  do  you  sup 
pose?  I  had  sent  my  dresses  to  Boston  this 
morning,  and  kept  my  clothes  for  the  wash  here. 
Now,  pray  don't  laugh,  for  I  did  not  know  what 
I  should  do.  I  thought  I  might  have  to  stay  in 
bed,  until  I  found  this  black  lace  dress  in  the 
bottom  of  my  trunk.  And  I  Ve  kept  your 
dinner  waiting.  My  dear,  I  am  so  sorry!  It's 
most  embarrassing.  Such  a  time  as  I  have  had  ! 
They  '11  all  be  down  again  to-morrow  with  the 
ice-cream.  They  don't  make  it  at  the  hotel, 


1 88         A  Week  away  from   Time, 

you  know,  and  I  thought  I  'd  treat  the  children 
there.  I  've  telegraphed.  I  said  to  Fera,  '  Go 
to  house,  and  get  dresses.'  I  said  to  them  at 
my  house,  '  Take  dresses  to  confectioner's.' 
So  they  '11  all  come  together  by  the  morning 
train." 

When  they  were  seated  at  dinner,  she  said  to 
Ralph,  "  I  hear  it  is  your  turn  to-night,  Mr. 
Travers.  What  are  you  going  to  tell  us  about? 
Venice  !  Paul  knew  all  about  Venice — the  piles, 
you  know.  Things  under  the  house  that  let  the 
water  into  your  cellar;  but  they  ought  not  to. 
Paul  built  some  houses  down  on  the  Back  Bay, 
and  they  relapsed,  or  did  whatever  houses  down 
there  do ;  and  he  went  to  Venice  afterwards, 
and  found  that  those  old  architects  knew  all 
about  it.  He  explained  to  me,  I  remember;  he 
said  the  salt  water  kept  the  wood  from  rotting 
in  Venice,  and  somehow  it  did  n't  in  Boston. 
So  I  decided  I  'd  rather  stay  where  I  was,  above 
Charles  Street." 

After  dinner  Ralph  begged  Muriel  to  sing 
one  song,  and  he  should  be  better  able  to  read 
his  story;  and  Muriel  sang:  — 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        189 


WHITE   DAYS. 

Yesterday,  not  a  song  in  the  air, 

Not  a  hope  in  the  sky, 

No  bird  on  the  wing  — 
A  sealed  and  death-still  earth,  relentless,  bare  : 

To-day  all  the  land  doth  sing  ! 

Yesterday,  like  a  barrier, 

Forcing  our  lives  apart, 
The  ground  lay  like  a  heavy  grave  : 

To-day  the  snowdrops  start. 

Yesterday,  an  unreckoned  space 

Stretched  from  my  path  to  thine  : 
To-day,  thy  hand,  thy  voice,  thy  face,  — 

All  dearest  things  are  mine  ! 

Bell  whispered  to  her  sister,  — 

"  She  puts  quite  a  new  expression  into  her 
singing  to-night.  Which  of  them  is  it,  my 
dear?"  But  she  saw  an  unusual  expression  in 
Margaret's  own  face,  which  was  full  of  emotion, 
and  stopped,  a  little  frightened. 

Ralph  was  now  commanded  to  begin.  He 
cleared  his  throat,  and  looked  very  nervous. 

"  If  you  have  never  been  in  Venice,  it  is  your 
loss,"  he  began ;  "  and  how  great  a  loss  you  will 


1 90        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

never  know  till  you  go  there.  You  must  n't 
yawn,  Bell." 

"  My  dear,  it  was  the  tone,"  said  his  sister,  — 
"  so  hollow." 

"Yes,  wasn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Chauncey,  "as 
if  he  were  talking  out  of  the  plug  in  the  bath 
tub." 

"  Well,  I  never  told  a  story  before,"  said  Ralph, 
getting  more  and  more  awkward.  "Wyatt,  why 
can't  you  take  us  on  board  your  yacht?  I  think 
I  could  get  on  better  there.  I  sha'  n't  see  them 
yawn  so  distinctly  by  moonlight." 

This  was  carried ;  at  last  the  chairs  on  deck 
were  comfortably  arranged,  and  cigars  puffed. 
Wyatt  sat  at  Muriel's  feet  to-night,  and  was  only 
a  passenger.  The  moon  was  just  rising,  the  stars 
shone  brilliant  in  the  sky,  and  a  warm  smell  of 
sedge  filled  the  air.  Ralph  took  a  second  start, 
and  began  the  story  of 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.     191 


THE   PALACE   OF   THE   CLOSED  WINDOW. 

THE  dining-room  of  the  Three  Wise  Men  of  the 
Orient  is  a  squalid  little  place.  Its  waiters  are  plausible, 
and  they  smile  continually ;  this  good-nature  on  their 
part,  however,  adds  but  little  savor  to  the  food.  If  you 
ask  for  a  bottle  of  wine,  you  get  something  so  sour  that 
it  files  the  throat  all  the  way  down.  The  wonder  is  that 
you  ever  ask  for  another,  or  that  you  return  to  the  inn 
at  all.  Perhaps  the  reason  that  I  shall  always  put  up 
there  is  because,  as  I  sit  in  Wall  Street,  I  can  close 
my  eyes  and  see  the  genial  face  of  the  landlord,  and 
think  of  the  two  ascending  steps  that  lurk  in  the  black 
est  part  of  my  bedroom  passage.  The  smell  that  per 
vades  the  premises  resembles  no  other  odor  I  have 
met.  But  a  smell  you  know  is  better  than  a  new 
smell ;  therefore  in  August,  1 88-,  I  came  back  to  the 
Albergo  of  the  Three  Wise  Men  of  the  Orient.  My 
room,  No.  7,  was  unchanged  ;  its  door  still  swung  back 
on  joints  that  slanted  it  farther  from  the  floor  each  inch 
they  opened.  On  the  rumpled  white  curtain  in  my 
window  the  bodies  of  mosquitoes  I  had  flattened  there 
the  year  before  still  stuck.  Her  excellency  my  cham 
bermaid  had  a  thumping  tread,  and  was  shrill-voiced  of 
a  morning,  but  she  was  very  glad  to  see  me.  "  Eh, 


1 92        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

my  lord,  how  does  the  Signorino  do?"  said  she  ;  and 
she  remembered  to  put  an  additional  green  pail  of 
water  in  my  room.  Moreover,  the  leaky  seam  in  my 
tub  had  been  soldered.  This  the  grinning  Sebastiano 
pointed  out  as  he  lugged  it  into  its  corner.  I  found 
such  discomfort  comfortable.  The  very  tune  the  man 
in  the  alley-way  behind  still  played  on  his  clarinet  after 
some  twelve  months  beat  a  rhythm  grateful  to  my  ear, — 
for  the  first  day,  at  least.  At  dinner  the  usual  food  was 
served.  The  waiter,  Antonio,  smiled  as  he  bent  over 
with  his  dishes,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  The  Signore  will 
recollect  our  ambrosia.  Nothing  in  the  world  like  it!" 
There  was  nothing  in  the  world  like  it,  so  the  Signore 
recollected  very  well.  Pah  !  how  delightfully  bad  it 
was  !  And  here  was  Venice  again,  to  be  sure  ;  and  in 
the  Signore 's  pocket  was  a  bundle  of  letters  for  the 
American  Colony ;  they  had  been  consigned  to  him  by 
various  Americans  who  persisted  in  dwelling  in  the 
States.  They  promised  tedious  hours.  Bunched  to 
gether  next  my  heart,  though  with  several  thicknesses 
of  stout  English  cloth  between,  they  felt  bulky  enough 
to  support  a  season  of  gloves  and  white  cravats.  I 
spread  them  on  the  table  after  my  soup  was  removed ; 
I  had  to  push  the  glasses  and  salt-cellars  about,  to 
make  room  for  them.  I  looked  at  them,  and  through 
them  to  the  other  side,  into  a  vista  of  card-plates  and 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    193 

open  doors,  where  voices  of  servants  told  me  their 
mistresses  were  at  home. 

One  letter  was  to  a  venomous  little  lady  who  had 
once  lived  in  Thirty-eighth  Street,  New  York.  She 
would  dine  me,  and  after  dinner,  over  her  liqueurs  and 
cigarettes,  she  would  inquire  what  color  I  preferred 
her  hair,  and  would  regale  me  with  anecdotes ;  these 
would  bear  the  cosmopolitan  stamp.  Another  letter 
was  to  a  family  of  three  seedy  daughters  and  their  old 
fustian  papa.  He  trailed  them  from  Venice  to  Rome, 
from  Nice  to  Pau  and  Paris,  and  so  back  to  Venice. 
All  were  accomplished.  Emilie  sang  Tuscan  street- 
songs  to  the  guitar;  Lizzie  tinkled  the  zither  and 
yodled  Styrian  ditties  with  an  accent  pronounced 
amazing  by  those  who  knew;  Maria  sang  "Le  petit 
bleu,"  "  Elle  a  du  zut,  zut,  zut,"  and  once  in  a  while 
after  supper  she  could  be  persuaded  to  dance  while  her 
two  sisters  twanged  the  guitar  and  piano  and  the  guests 
rattled  the  fire-irons.  Every  one  said  these  girls  pre 
served  their  "entrain"  wonderfully.  Then  other  letters 
to  colony  painters  lay  before  me,  —  young  men  who 
deplored  the  future  of  art  in  America,  and  spoke 
fluently  the  jargon  of  the  ateliers.  Must  this  corre 
spondence  be  presented  for  civility's  sake?  I  stared 
gloomily  into  space,  till  my  eye  rested  on  the  single 
other  guest  of  the  Three  Wise  Men,  and  he  grew  bleared 
13 


1 94        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

under  my  blank  scrutiny.  I  did  not  know  that  he  had 
for  some  time  been  staring  at  me  with  all  his  might. 

"  Lieber  Gott !  and  is  it  my  friend  Travers?"  he 
exclaimed,  tipping  over  his  chair  as  he  hurried  up  from 
his  end  of  the  table. 

I  recognized  the  excellent  Caspar  Zell.  "  Why, 
Caspar  !  Why,  bless  my  soul  !  Why,  how  did  you 
crawl  into  this  place?" 

"  And  is  it  not  more  likely,  Mr.  Broker  from  Wall 
Street,  that  I,  the  artist,  the  '  Farbenmeister,"  should 
nose  out  a  little  hole  like  this?  Waiter,  another  bottle 
of  red  wine  !  Aha,  Mr.  Broker  !  we  '11  set  some  of  the 
juice  trickling  down  our  throats,  eh?" 

"  Sir,  to  you  !     But  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"Doing?  My  box  is  not  yet  unpacked.  I  am 
come  to-day  from  Vienna  for  a  change." 

"How  goes  work?" 

"  Excellent.  I  hang  in  Munich  for  the  whole  world 
to  admire  me,  and  two  pictures  have  I  sold  in  Dresden. 
One  is  —  pst  !  not  very  serious.  I  call  it  '  Hearing 
Strauss.'  Of  course  it  is  a  man  with  his  girl.  And 
you  ?  " 

"  Excellent  also.     I  do  not  hang  anywhere  yet." 

"And  the  philosophy,  Herr  Broker?  Are  we  as 
practical  and  '  wirklich  '  as  ever  ?  Do  we  still  scoff  at 
the  truth-seekers  ?  " 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.     195 

'•  We  still  do,  Caspar.  Money-making,  plain  think 
ing,  and  high  living  remain  our  little  all,  bless  them  !" 

"  Ach  !  you  New  York  humans  are  astonishing,  with 
your  street  of  ticking-machines,  and  your  church  at  the 
end  like  an  Amen.  Do  the  Midases  of  the  Republic 
go  there  after  business  to  rinse  the  gold  out  with  a  cup 
ful  of  holy  water,  so  it  will  be  quite  fresh  for  dinner? 
Ach,  a  versatile  people  !  " 

"  I  guess  we  're  versatile,  Caspar,  but  we  ain't  much 
like  that." 

"  Now  you  drawl,  and  talk  with  your  practical  nose. 
Another  bottle  will  give  you  a  good  temper ;  you  will 
feel  ready  for  some  philosophy.  No  ?  Well,  then,  come 
out  into  the  town.  You  have  no  notion  how  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  once  more."  And  taking  my  arm  he  hurried 
me  into  a  gondola  and  away,  talking  continuously. 
"Ach!"  he  began,  "let  no  one  speak  to  me  of  the 
mystery  of  night  elsewhere.  Look  up  at  those  passing 
walls ;  we  feel  more  than  we  see.  Is  it  not  as  if  they 
were  scenery  in  the  back  of  a  theatre  ?  Have  you  ever 
gone  behind  the  stage  when  dusk  was  coming?  When 
you  are  next  at  Weimar,  I  will  take  you.  It  makes  a 
wonderful  effect  on  the  nerves." 

"  The  nerves,  your  nerves,  you  Teuton  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  my  nerves,  adopted  son  of  Wall 
Street  ?  " 


1 96        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Why,  Caspar,  I  thought  you  were  a  materialist." 

"  I  am  a  materialist,  —  a  hundred  times  a  materialist ; 
but  what  of  that  ?  Because  I  know  that  what  we  call 
fear  is  nothing  but  a  vibration  of  nerve  tissue,  can  I 
stop  my  particular  tissue  from  vibrating  ?  At  any  rate, 
we  Germans  have  imagination ;  and  I  believe  you 
Americans  have  none  at  all." 

I  found  I  had  enough  to  keep  me  silent  as  the  walls 
glided  by.  The  unfrequent  lamps  served  to  show 
buildings  that  might  rise  to  unlimited  heights  and 
descend  to  depths  equally  quiet  and  unfathomed. 

"  What  are  the  half-dozen  lighted  cafes  and  piazzas 
in  such  a  universal  hush  as  this?"  I  mused  aloud. 

"The  Past,  she  is  queen  here  still,  nicht  wahr?" 
said  Caspar.  "  These  walls,  these  walls  ;  things  have 
been  acted  behind  them.  Let  us  get  into  the  light 
and  have  a  glass  of  something  !  " 

We  had  several  glasses  of  something.  The  buzz  of 
the  cafe,  and  the  cheerful  haste  of  waiters  tinkling  the 
glasses  they  carried,  put  a  new  aspect  on  the  city. 
Caspar  and  I  soon  arranged  our  programme.  Three 
weeks  were  to  be  given  to  Venice,  —  he  to  sketch,  and 
both  of  us  to  loaf;  and  then  we  should  walk  in  the 
Salzkammergut.  I  sauntered  to  the  water  with  a  glass 
in  one  hand  and  my  letters  in  the  other.  "  There,"  I 
said,  dropping  them  in,  —  "there  goes  the  American 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    197 

Colony.      I   come   from   an   American   Colony,    and 

v 
one  's  enough.     Caspar,  I  shall  expect  you  to  give  me 

points  on  '  Renaissance/  and  '  Decadence,'  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  and  I  '11  tell  you  when  I  see  a  girl  worth 
painting." 

"Agreed,  Herr  Broker,"  said  Caspar.  "  Now  to  the 
hotel." 

We  got  into  our  gondola,  and  turned  from  the 
broad  water,  in  which  lights  were  twinkling,  into  a 
narrower  passage  that  curved  into  the  gloom.  The 
sombre  walls  began  to  put  forth  their  influence  again. 
But  Caspar  had  become  musical,  and  was  now 
uttering  a  string  of  fragments  in  a  deep  and  some 
what  harsh  bass. 

"  Where  rippling  waters  rise  and  fall, 
And  boats  glide  silent  'neath  each  palace  wall," 

• 
he  sang. 

"  Where  love  is  plenty 
For  two-and-twenty," 

» 
chimed   in  another  voice  from  the  water's  edge,  —  a 

man's  voice,  but  mellow  as  the  night  wind.  "  Ho  ! 
my  friends.  You  sing  good  songs.  In  the  name  of  your 
music,  do  me  a  great  favor.  I  am  caught  in  a  mesh, 
and  cannot  reach  my  destination  by  land.  I  have 
hailed  gondolas  in  vain.  Set  me  down,  in  all  charity 


198        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

beyond  the  second  bridge  from  here,  and  I  am  at  your 
service." 

"  Go  under  the  lamp,  then,  and  show  us  what  for  a 
man  you  are,"  said  Caspar. 

"  Nonsense,  Caspar ;  we  '11  take  him,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  The  request  is  fair,"  said  the  voice,  but  somewhat 
haughtily.  In  a  moment  he  stood  under  the  lamp, 
which  shone  quietly  down  on  him.  Leaning  back 
against  the  wall,  he  was  all  of  six  feet ;  but  standing,  he 
would  have  gained  an  inch  at  the  least.  Over  one  arm 
hung  a  cloak  ;  the  other  was  akimbo.  \Ve  could  see  he 
had  a  slight  black  moustache,  and  a  chin  clean  cut  and 
pointed.  The  upper  half  of  the  face  was  in  shadow. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  laughing  a  little,  as  we  con 
tinued  to  eye  him. 

"  Step  in,  sir,  by  all  means,"  I  hastened  to  say. 

"  It  is  true  I  am  armed,"  he  continued,  "  but  I  am 
one  and  you  are  four." 

Caspar  was  still  silent.  The  stranger  now  laughed 
outright.  He  made  a  gesture. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  as  something  clattered  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat. 

I  stooped  and  picked  up  an  exceedingly  beautiful 
stiletto. 

"  Now  I  am  at  your  mercy,  you  see,"  continued  our 
would-be  guest. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    199 

We  bumped  against  the  side,  and  he  stepped  in, 
light  and  true  as  a  wild  animal. 

"  I  own,"  said  he,  "  that  such  a  request  as  mine 
was  a  trifle  out  of  the  common ;  but  I  felt  sure  you 
would  grant  it  when  I  heard  your  music.  I  have 
always  found  that  the  carouser  who  puts  a  certain  free 
stroke  into  his  songs  will  give  and  take  a  favor 
easily.  Though  it  was  you,  sir,  I  believe,  whom  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  hearing,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Caspar. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  sir  —  "  began  poor  Zell. 

"  Not  a  word,  and  no  offence.  Even  the  night 
carouser  should  be  prudent.  This  corner  is  not  a 
place  to  take  a  stranger  on  board  without  stopping  to 
look  at  him." 

We  turned  into  the  canal  on  which  was  our  inn. 
On  the  corner  stood  a  palace  that  in  the  daylight  I  had 
observed  as  being  singularly  stately  for  this  quarter  of 
Venice. 

"  Many  thanks,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  I  will  leave 
you  here.  No,  do  not  stop  the  boat."  He  sprang 
out  as  lightly  as  he  had  entered.  "You  have  my 
stiletto.  Keep  it ;  though  you  will  remember  me 
without  it !"  and  he  laughed  strangely.  Some  corner 
near  us  reverberated  out  of  the  dark.  "  No,  I  insist 
upon  your  taking  it.  You  are  at  the  Three  WTise  Men? 


2OO        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

We  shall  meet  again,  gentlemen,  for  Venice  is  small, 
and  I  am  always  at  your  service  ;  good-night !  " 

We  moved  into  the  shadow,  and  we  thought  we 
heard  a  door  close.  There  was  one  that  gave  entrance 
to  the  small  garden  adjoining  the  palace. 

"  H'm  !  strange  person!"  observed  Caspar.  "A 
practical  joker." 

"  Practical  jokers  don't  make  you  presents  in  New 
York,"  said  I. 

"  Were  I  not  a  materialist,  I  should  say,  '  Beware  of 
it ! '  "  replied  the  artist. 

In  my  room,  I  examined  the  weapon  carefully.  It 
was  certainly  an  old  one,  and  of  most  intricate  and 
curious  ornamentation.  I  slipped  it  into  the  sheath 
again,  and  blew  out  the  light,  half  expecting  it  to  be 
gone  in  the  morning.  I  awaked  at  a  decent  hour.  The 
stiletto  was  on  my  table,  substantial  enough  to  have 
comforted  Macbeth.  The  clarinet  was  tooting  nasal 
ditties  in  the  back  alley,  and  Stella,  my  chambermaid, 
was  screaming  cheerfully  up  and  down  the  passage. 

At  breakfast  Caspar  informed  me  that  he  was  sure 
he  had  seen  our  eccentric  guest  before — where,  he 
puzzled  over  without  success.  But  he  would  know  the 
next  time.  On  our  way  to  sight-seeing  (and  in 
Venice  it  is  certainly  lions  one  expects  to  see)  we 
stared  up  from  the  gondola  at  the  palace  with  the 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    201 

garden  wall.  Singular  that  a  spider's  web  across  the 
doorway  should  be  dusty  already !  There  was  no 
other  door,  nor  did  the  windows  show  signs  of  light 
existing  behind  them. 

"  Tell  us,  friend  Luigi,"  I  said  to  our  gondolier,  a 
most  amiable  and  worthless  youth,  "  what  that  palace 
is  we  are  passing." 

"  Signore,  we  call  it  the  '  Palazzo  della  Finestra 
chiusa.'  " 

"  That  is  a  curious  name." 

"  Look,  Signore,  before  we  get  too  far.  There, 
above  tlie  row  of  columns,  above  the  noble  story,  the 
line  of  windows  is  one  too  short.  Do  you  see?  The 
cornice  juts  out,  and  there  is  carving  on  the  stone 
above  it,  like  the  others.  But  the  window  itself  has 
been  walled  up." 

"  Why  was  that  done,  Luigi? " 

"Who  knows?  It  has  always  been  so,  Signore. 
They  are  a  great  family  that  live  there,  but  they  come 
seldom.  '  Forestieri '  have  tried  to  hire  the  palace, 
but  they  are  always  refused.  Some  of  our  other 
patricians  are  not  so  particular." 

"  Now,  Luigi,  look  here  !  When  the  family  is  away, 
is  their  house  ever  visited,  or  used  for  any  purpose?  " 

"  Eh  ?  no,  Signore.  What  could  one  do  with  it  ? 
Though  I  have  peeped  into  the  garden  myself  once  or 


2O2        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

twice.     But  no  one  ever  walks  there.     It  would  not  be 
'a  bad   place  for  two  to  take  a  walk  in!"  and  Luigi 
kissed  his  hand  fervently  at  the  air. 

"  Ah,  Luigi,  you  're  a  rogue,  I  fear.  What  does  the 
garden  look  like  ?  " 

"  All  grown  full  of  flowers  and  trees,  Signore.  The 
trees  you  can  see.  They  have  become  tired  of  their 
garden,  and  now  look  over  the  top  of  the  wall ;  so 
they  can  listen  to  what  the  couples  are  whispering  as 
they  go  by  of  an  evening.  The  flowers,  poor  things  ! 
remain  inside."  Then  our  gondolier  fell  to  singing  to 
himself. 

As  we  crossed  the  Piazzetta,  the  good  natives  turned 
to  have  a  second  look  at  us — or  rather  at  Caspar.  I 
was  only  an  American  consulting  his  guide-book ;  but 
Caspar  was  worthy  of  attention.  The  toes  of  his  shoes 
were  wrinkled  and  square,  their  heels  high  and  pointed ; 
his  hat  was  of  green  straw,  nearly  as  tall  as  a  beaver, 
and  his  gray  coat  bulged  wherever  it  could  bulge,  save 
at  the  waist  only,  where  it  shrank  him  into  something 
deserving  footlights  and  a  character  song.  Out  of  a 
tail-pocket  there  invariably  stuck  a  volume  of  fat 
German  learning,  while  alongside  it  rattled  a  protrud 
ing  spectacle-case  that  shifted  as  he  walked,  as  if 
struggling  to  get  itself  into  a  comfortable  position. 
The  trousers  matched  the  coat ;  and  such  was  his  wear, 


T/ie  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.     203 

out  of  his  bedchamber.  His  night  apparel  I  never 
ventured  to  see.  I  looked  up  from  my  Baedeker  to 
watch  him  wave  his  admiring  hand  at  the  Lagoon  and 
San  Georgio,  around  which  the  tide  was  quietly  swim 
ming.  Then  I  continued  my  search  in  Baedeker  for 
the  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window. 

"  Is  your  guide-book  failing  you  ?  Perhaps  I  may 
be  of  assistance  !  " 

Of  course  it  was  our  friend  of  the  stiletto  who  spoke. 
There  he  was,  smiling  courteously.  He  walked 
toward  me,  and  jumped  over  an  intervening  chain 
that  stretched  between  some  stone  posts.  Sunlight 
showed  him  to  be  a  man  as  much  out  of  the  common 
as  he  had  seemed  at  night.  As  he  came  up,  I  meas 
ured  him  with  my  eye  and  concluded  that  his  parting 
with  the  stiletto  would  have  availed  me  very  little  if  it 
had  come  to  that.  Caspar  had  turned,  and  was  look 
ing  at  him  in  obvious  perplexity. 

"  Good-morning,  Signore  —  Signore  —  " 
"  Giulio  ;    Giulio  Massano,"  he  replied.     "  But  you 
are  looking  for  something  in  the  book?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered  slowly,  "and  I  cannot  find  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  help  you.     I  am  as  familiar  with 

Venice  as  though  it  were  my  home."     By  this  time  my 

answer   was   concocted.     "I  was   trying  to  learn,"  I 

said,  "  the  reason  that  Titian  offered  the  Signoria  his 


204        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

services  in  a  piece  of  work  for  four  hundred  ducats, 
when  Perugino  had  refused  double  the  sum  twenty 
years  before." 

At  the  name  of  Titian  there  happened  a  curious 
circumstance.  Caspar  struck  one  fist  into  the  other, 
and  stared  harder  than  ever,  while  the  dark  eyes  of 
young  Giulio  (he  seemed  not  twenty-five)  had  for 
one  second  a  terrible  look,  and  the  muscles  of  his  jaw 
knotted  under  his  cheeks.  He  had  noticed  Caspar's 
action  also,  and  gave  him  a  quick  glance,  anything 
but  friendly. 

"Caspar  is  getting  eccentric,  too,"  I  thought.  "I 
shall  soon  be  doing  something  extraordinary  myself." 

"Titian/"  said  the  Italian  violently.  Something 
choked  him.  He  cleared  his  throat.  "  Titian  was  a 
money-dredging  traitor  !  That  is  —  to  his  art,  you 
understand,  sir." 

Caspar  plunged  into  a  hot  defence  of  the  painter. 

"  Do  not  let  us  have  an  argument,"  Giulio  inter 
rupted,  sweeping  away  any  more  words  with  his  hand. 
Then  he  began  to  laugh.  "  You  appear  to  have  hit  a 
prejudice  of  mine,"  he  said  to  me. 

Caspar  stole  a  look  at  me,  and  tapped  his  fore 
head.  But  Giulio  saw  him.  "  No  doubt  you  think 
so,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  told  so  before  now ;  "  and 
he  gave  a  grim  smile. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window r.     205 

All  three  of  us  began  to  walk  along  slowly.  We 
strolled  into  St.  Mark's,  then  across  to  the  Ducal 
Palace.  I  told  myself  that  all  this  promised  better 
than  the  American  Colony.  I  am  not  yet  enough  of 
a  confirmed  broker  to  require  the  stimulus  of  a  New 
York  newspaper  in  whatsoever  part  of  the  world  I  find 
myself.  My  eight  weeks  in  Europe  refresh  me  most 
when  I  pass  them  without  hearing  a  word  of  American 
spoken.  None  certainly  was  spoken  on  this  morning, 
which  grew  stranger  as  it  went  on.  Giulio  —  or  Julian, 
as  Caspar  and  I  found  ourselves  calling  him  without 
being  able  to  help  it  —  became  our  guide. 

'•'  Red  books  cannot  show  Venice  to  you,"  said  he. 
"  What  do  they  know  of  the  things  that  lurk  here?  " 

He  led  us  by  degrees  into  the  remote  corners  of  the 
city.  It  was  not  churches  nor  picture-galleries  he 
cared  to  show  us ;  they  were  treated  as  matters  of 
course,  though  he  was  evidently  as  proud  of  them  as 
if  they  were  his  own.  But  they  bored  him.  The  dis 
like  he  showed  for  everything  well-known  was  curious. 
"  They  are  stranger-ridden,  their  bloom  is  gone,"  he 
said.  "  Steam  and  hotels  are  turning  Venice  into  a 
courtesan  ;  she  is  at  money's  command."  He  pointed 
out  the  sites  of  gaming-halls  and  rioting  dens,  once 
flourishing,  now  extinct.  "  Here  is  where  much  young 
blood  came  to  no  good,"  said  Julian.  "  But  the  vol- 


206        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

cano  is  not  active  any  more."  We  descended  into  a 
dark  hole  whose  walls  were  blistered  with  damp,  but 
still  plainly  showed  that  they  had  been  gorgeous  in 
their  day.  It  was  a  haunt  where  all  young  Venice  had 
been  used  to  swarm.  We  stumbled  after  Julian  through 
ragged  suites  of  rooms  where  the  wine  had  once  been 
spilt ;  the  tide-ooze  was  in  them  now.  As  we  listened 
to  Julian's  talk,  the  nineteenth  century  began  to  dwin 
dle  and  shrink  ;  the  world  of  modern  inventions  became 
separated  from  our  existence,  and  its  thoughts  dissolved 
out  of  our  heads.  We  followed  through  by-ways  and 
corridors,  down  curving  flights  of  stone,  sometimes 
beneath  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  again  emerging 
into  some  nook  of  masonry.  We  looked  out  through 
barred  windows  at  glimpses  of  columns  supporting 
invisible  roofs,  and  foliage  cloaking  their  mysterious 
bases.  The  spell  grew,  until  time  and  space  and  our 
selves  were  as  a  single  mazy  vision. 

Crossing  a  balcony,  the  air  became  full  of  whirring 
and  flapping.  It  was  the  hour  the  pigeons  were  fed, 
and  a  cohort  of  them  was  leaving  the  crevices  and 
perches  all  about  us.  But  to  our  ears  this  sounded 
like  an  exodus  of  spirits.  Julian's  knowledge  of  every 
corner  was  marvellous.  From  the  vagabond  side  he 
now  turned  to  the  great  houses  of  Venice,  and  pene 
trated  places  virgin  to  the  visits  of  outsiders.  If  a 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.     207 

hidden  door  were  proof  against  him,  he  found  an  ac 
cessible  spot  in  the  wall.  My  fear  of  stewards  and 
custodians  soon  changed  to  a  relish  for  our  unusual 
proceedings.  We  climbed  into  windows,  and  we 
crawled  under  low  arches  into  forbidden  ground. 

"We  shall  at  least  be  in  prison  together,"  panted 
Caspar,  as  I  lifted  him  up  to  a  ledge  that  was  too  much 
for  him. 

"  I  suppose  a  man  could  do  this,  if  he  chose,  in  New 
York  or  Boston,  at  certain  seasons.  During  those 
weeks  when  front  doors  on  Beacon  Street  are  boarded 
up  to  keep  them  dry,  why  should  not  an  energetic 
tourist  make  his  way  into  three  quarters  of  them  from 
the  little  ash-barrel  lane  that  runs  behind  them  along 
the  water's  edge?" 

The  great  people  whose  mansions  we  entered  on 
this  most  fantastic  morning  were  out  of  town,  and  we 
passed  unchallenged.  The  living-apartments  of  the 
Wartburg,  or  the  chambers  of  Chenonceaux,  where  lived 
Diane  de  Poictiers,  are  full  enough  of  ghostly  history ; 
but  the  sanctuaries  into  which  we  came  outdid  them 
all,  —  family  chapels  from  which  the  faint  odor  of 
incense  pervaded  the  winding  approaches  to  them, 
on  their  altars  missals  colored  by  the  hand  of  some 
ancestress,  sometimes  a  shrine  set  up  to  a  family 
saint  on  some  family  crisis.  There  were  rooms  that 


208        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

seemed  darkened  to  keep  family  secrets  closer ;  sleep 
ing  apartments  with  unexpected  doors  hard  by  the  bed  ; 
galleries  from  whose  walls  looked  portraits  never  seen 
but  by  friends  and  descendants ;  antechambers  con 
trived  for  listening.  In  what  part  of  the  town  we  were 
it  was  idle  to  imagine.  We  never  followed  a  canal  or 
an  alley.  Sometimes  we  crossed  one,  but  our  way  was 
through  bits  of  garden,  narrow  passages,  up  stairways 
and  turrets  into  galleries  running  through  the  thickness 
of  the  wall,  across  covered  bridges,  in  and  out,  till  the 
place  became  another  Venice.  No  sign  of  life  dis 
turbed  us.  At  last  we  came  into  a  long  hall  and  saw 
ahead  of  us  a  white-haired  old  fellow  in  a  velvet  gown. 
A  chain  hung  from  his  girdle,  and  at  its  end  were  keys 
that  chinked  feebly  as  they  swung  in  the  folds  of  his 
robe. 

"  No  harm  in  him,"  said  Julian.  "  He  is  deaf  as  a 
post.  There  he  goes  into  the  chapel,"  he  continued. 
"  His  ancestor  with  one  of  those  keys  unlocked  San- 
sovino  and  let  him  out.  Ha  !  do  you  know  why  they 
shut  up  Sansovino  thirty  feet  or  so  beneath  where  we 
stand  ?  Because  he  built  some  arches  in  the  Library 
so  ill  that  the  ice  in  the  springtime  crumbled  them. 
If  architects  were  served  so  now  they  would  still  make 
good  buildings.  When  we  flourished  at  the  expense  of 
our  inferiors,  the  world  was  a  finer  place  to  live  in." 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    209 

"  Perhaps  that  is  still  being  done.  The  '  lower 
classes  '  are  still  flourishing  at  the  expense  of  their  infe 
riors."  Caspar  Zell  put  a  sour  emphasis  on  "  lower 
classes." 

Julian  stared  down  at  him ;  the  artist  stood  barely 
five  foot  six  in  his  highest  heels.  "  Let  us  come  in 
here,"  was  all  he  said. 

He  pushed  open  a  door  that  we  had  not  noticed. 
The  floor  upon  which  we  entered  was  of  marble.  From 
the  ceiling  a  lamp  shone  down  with  dim  rays.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  other  means  of  light  anywhere  in  the 
apartment.  Thick  Eastern  stuffs  were  spread  in  lieu 
of  carpet,  but  not  so  as  to  conceal  the  stone  altogether, 
which  was  of  exquisitely  pure  grain.  In  a  recess  stood 
a  bed,  also  covered  with  rich  materials. 

"This  lamp  has  burned  three  hundred  and  fifty 
years,"  said  Julian  in  a  hollow  voice.  "  No  one  has 
slept  here  since  the  day  it  was  lighted." 

The  room  had  been  also  a  living-room.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  couch,  and  by  its  side  a  distaff  from 
which  dangled  a  yellow  shred.  I  noticed  two  little 
embroidered  slippers  half  hid  under  the  couch.  Julian's 
glance  fell  on  them,  and  he  shuddered  and  turned  away. 
A  silence  of  the  grave  fell  around  us,  while  with  a  quick 
ened  tread  he  visited  every  corner,  struggling  visibly 
with  some  deep  emotion.  His  gait  had  become  agi- 
14 


2io        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

tated  and  uneven,  and  we  could  hear  the  long  breaths 
he  took.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  increasing  mystery 
I  could  not  help  noticing  one  cuiious  trifle,  —  though 
Caspar  and  I  made  constant  creaking  in  our  move 
ments,  Julian's  steps  always  fell  without  a  sound.  But 
what  he  was  doing,  or  might  do  next,  had  long  passed 
the  point  of  wonder  or  surmise.  I  allowed  myself  to 
drift  on,  as  if  I  were  contemplating  myself  from  a 
distance.  Julian  was  now  bringing  something  in  his 
hand. 

"  See  !  "  he  whispered.  It  was  a  small  harp,  whose 
frame  was  carved  with  the  legend  of  Orpheus.  Julian 
seated  himself  on  the  couch,  and  slid  his  fingers  over 
the  strings,  which  answered  with  faint,  sweet  tones.  He 
continued  to  touch  them  at  random,  till  gradually  a 
prelude  became  distinct  out  of  the  general  harmonious 
murmur.  It  came  into  my  head  that  the  sound  might 
bring  some  one,  but  if  it  should,  he  would  probably 
become  merely  another  actor  in  all  this.  Julian  had 
begun  to  sing,  — 

"  Should  sleep  assail  thy  drowsy  eyes, 
When  the  black  priest  preacheth  wearily, 
Look  where  the  lofty  pillars  rise, 
And  I  '11  be  there  to  see. 
Oh,  wake  !  and  look  where  the  pillars  rise, 
And  I  '11  look  back  at  thee. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    2 1 1 

"  When  in  the  hush  of  placid  night 
Lonely  I  rest,  and  far  from  thee, 
Speed  me  thy  thought  in  a  vision's  flight, 
To  be  my  company. 
Dream  me  some  message  in  the  night, 
For  all  my  dream  is  thee. 

''When  quiet  on  my  last  cold  bed, 
I  'rn  borne,  shouldst  thou  then  pass  by  me, 
Draw  near  and  kiss  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  I  '11  rise  up  for  thee. 
Whisper  my  name,  and  kiss  the  dead, 
And  I  '11  wake  with  a  kiss  for  thee." 

The  dreary  sounds  of  the  harp  lingered  a  moment, 
then  ceased  as  they  had  begun,  in  sweet  random  chords. 
Julian  silently  replaced  the  instrument.  A  gust  of 
wind  in  the  corridor  rattled  the  latch.  For  a  moment 
I  expected  the  old  velvet  fellow.  But  nothing  entered 
save  the  draught,  which  set  some  tapestry  swinging. 
Julian  stopped  it,  and  lifted  a  narrow  and  very  delicate 
strip  to  show  us.  The  colors  were  wonderfully  blended, 
and  the  whole  of  a  surpassing  fineness. 

"  Such  work  as  this  is  wrought  no  longer,"  said  he. 
"  A  man  comes,  and  glues  machine  paper  on  your  wall. 
She  who  lived  here  made  this  piece.  What  is  any  con 
trivance  of  wheels  and  levers  compared  with  the  wit  in 
one  of  her  little  hands?" 


212        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

He  passed  his  own  hand  gently  over  the  fabric,  and 
I  saw  how  it  trembled.  "  Let  us  go,"  he  said.  We 
preceded  him  into  the  corridor,  but  I  saw  him  bend 
and  kiss  the  embroidery  as  he  turned  to  follow  us  out. 
In  the  daylight  Caspar  gave  a  sigh,  and  began  to  assert 
himself. 

"  It  is  all  very  fine,  tapestry  and  palaces  ;  but  there 
was  much  of  bad  going  on,  —  oppression,  kings,  and 
open  dissoluteness." 

Again  I  saw  a  look  of  menace  cross  Julian's  face. 

"  To-day  is  better,  you  would  say  ?  " 

"Why  not?  Think  of  where  we  are  in  enlighten 
ment  and  world-understanding  !  Was  there  ever  an 
age  like  the  present?" 

"  The  present !     What  is  the  present?  " 

"  Critique,  reason,  science,  mechanique,  truth  ! " 
and  Caspar  stood  on  his  toes. 

"  Truth  !  If  what  you  say  were  truth,  the  world 
would  have  nothing  left.  Hunting  truth  may  be 
good;  but  what  cares  a  man  for  the  deer  when  the 
chase  is  over?  Truth  does  not  exist.  Anything  is 
true." 

Caspar  gasped  at  him,  and  he  continued,  — 

"  The  mechanical  present !  A  noble  time  !  Men 
fight  each  other  ten  miles  apart,  and  let  chemistry  make 
their  women's  portraits." 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    213 

"  We  have  also  painters  now,"  said  Zell,  swelling. 
"  Kings  and  Queens  are  gone,  to  be  sure." 

"  You  think  you  are  rid  of  them  ?  They  sit  in  the 
gutter  now,  instead  of  on  thrones.  You  have  only 
placed  them  elsewhere." 

"  If  that  is  so,  it  is  a  gain.  More  prosperity  is  now 
spread  in  towns  and  villages." 

"  What  do  we  care  for  spreading  prosperity?  Is  it 
a  glorious  thing  for  a  country  to  swarm  with  second- 
class  people?  The  vermin  would  never  have  been 
begotten  but  for  machinery.  A  noble  species,  the 
machine-made  citizen  !  When  a  man's  title  to  foot  it 
here  depended  ou  this,"  —  and  Julian  struck  his  right 
arm,  —  "blood  ran  thicker  in  his  body.  When  you 
ran  him  through,  a  richer  stream  spurted  out." 

"My  friend,  you  were  born  too  late,"  said  Zell. 

"  You  are  lucky  to  have  been  born  when  you 
were,"  said  Julian. 

"What  is  the  use  in  comparing  centuries?  "  replied 
Caspar. 

"  None,  certainly.  But  when  you  say  '  critique,'  — 
how  many  of  your  little  commentators  will  be  known, 
think  you,  in  the  twentieth  century?  Venice's  creators 
are  living  still." 

"  All  this  is  nothing,  nothing ;  merely  toys  for  chil 
dren,"  Zell  retorted,  forgetting  that  he  himself  was 


214        -A  Week  away  from   7ime. 

down  in  the  Weimar  directory  as  an  artist.  "  What  is 
the  finest  work  of  art  you  can  show  me,  compared  to  a 
well-fed  and  enlightened  family?" 

"  What  is  all  this  talk  compared  to  lunch?"  said  I. 

Julian  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "  Wise  man," 
he  said,  laughing.  But  he  would  not  come  with  us. 
He  brought  us  out  on  to  the  canal,  and  pointed  to  the 
right.  "  There  lies  your  way,"  he  said.  He  was  lean 
ing  against  the  wall  as  we  had  first  seen  him  under  the 
lamp.  The  gloom  had  left  his  manner  and  voice, 
which  was  now  that  of  the  vigorous  and  careless  young 
animal  that  he  looked.  I  watched  him  with  admira 
tion.  But  for  their  delicacy,  his  features  suggested 
nothing  but  perfect  enjoyment  of  the  five  senses.  "  Till 
we  meet  again,"  he  said,  and  was  gone  at  once. 

"A  hot-blooded  young  sinner,"  I  remarked  to 
Caspar. 

"  Ach  !  I  cannot  comprehend  such  people.  He  is 
fierce  against  all  the  peaceable  rights  of  the  human. 
Did  you  see  him  when  he  talked  about  locking  archi 
tects  up?  He  would  do  worse  than  that." 

"  Perhaps  so.  A  good  many  worse  things  might  be 
done,  Caspar." 

"  Himmel  !  "  said  he  ;  "  look  where  we  are  !  " 

We  were  standing  beneath  the  Palace  of  the  Closed 
Window. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    2  \  5 

"  Well,  no\v  I  suppose  we  know  how  some  of  it  looks 
inside,"  I  said. 

"  Mr.  Travers,  Mr.  Travers,  that  young  man  is  a 
villain  !  "  exclaimed  Zell.  "  If  we  go  with  him  so 
again,  he  will  get  us  into  trouble." 

"  We  're  not  worth  robbing,  you  know,  Caspar." 

"  No,  but  he  will  rob,  and  we  shall  be  caught.  That 
is  what  I  think.  What  business  has  any  man  to  know 
so  much  about  other  men's  houses?  " 

"  He  is  not  that  sort  of  person,"  I  said.  "  He  is  a 
gentleman,  whatever  else  he  may  be." 

"  A  gentleman  !  a  fine  one,  truly  !  Lock  up  archi 
tects,  call  decent  people  vermin,  murder  citizens  to 
see  how  thick  is  their  blood ;  that  is  a  gentleman  !  I 
would  not  trust  my  safety  to  him  ;  I  would  not  trust  my 
purse  with  him ;  I  would  not  risk  my  wife  or  my 
daughter  in  his  company.  He  is  the  worst  species  of 
human  produced.  A  gentleman  ! "  And  the  little 
painter  bubbled  and  squeaked.  "  Ach  !  I  almost  for 
got  !  "  he  continued  presently.  "  What  in  the  world 
put  Titian  and  the  ducats  into  your  head?" 

"  It  happened  to  be  the  last  sentence  I  had  read  in 
the  guide-book." 

"  But  do  you  not  know  it  was  very  strange  of  you  to 
say  that?  I  said  I  had  seen  his  face  before.  I  was 
wrong.  But  I  have  seen  one  of  his  kin.  Follow  me, 


2 1 6        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

Herr  Travers.  You  go  to  the  Louvre ;  you  stop  for  one 
moment  to  look  over  the  shoulder  of  the  old  man  who 
paints  the  Gallerie  d'Apollon,  and  never  another  thing. 
He  sits  at  the  door  of  the  Salon  Carre1.1  Do  you  know? 
Well,  go  in  at  that  door,  and  (if  you  can  help  it)  do  not 
turn  on  your  right  to  look  at  the  Mona  Lisa.  Go  on 
through  the  opposite  door  into  the  long  room.  There 
on  your  left —  is  it  the  second  or  the  third  picture?  — 
is  a  Titian,  wonderful,  prachtvoll,  a  master-work  !  " 

"  Ah  !  now  I  know  what  you  're  talking  about," 
said  I. 

"  Do  you  not  see  the  resemblance,  even  though 
it  is  an  older  man?  His  hair  is  black,  and  his  eye  too. 
Has  he  not  also  a  slight  moustache  curling  round  the 
lip  ?  But  he  is  not  in  good  spirits,  like  the  young  Julian. 
He  is  like  an  older  and  more  sinister  brother.  Yet  I 
could  think  that  Julian  might  look  like  that  some 
morning  when  he  lay  thinking  of  what  he  had  done 
the  night  before.  No  ;  it  is  more  than  Katzcn-jammcr 
with  the  man  in  the  Louvre.  When  Titian  painted 
that  man,  he  sat  before  the  master  with  gloomy  thoughts 
that  did  not  go  away  with  his  headache.  He  thinks  — 
but  life  does  not  please  him.  He,  too,  is  a  gentle 
man,  —  the  same  breed.  He  could  also  live  well  at 

1  And  sits  there  now  (1887)  nearly  a  hundred  years  old,  still 
copying  the  Gallerie  d'Apollon.  —  ED. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    217 

the  expense  of  his  inferiors,  and  put  people  that  were 
in  his  way  into  dungeons.  And  he  could  smile  on  a 
woman  till  she  let  him  betray  her.  Ach  !  I  hate  them 
all  !  But  they  are  so  beautiful,  —  and  so  fine  !  A  race 
that  did  everything  except  be  useful.  This  Julian  will 
look  like  that  picture  some  day,  when  seeing  too  many 
dawns  has  given  him  a  pale  face.  I  should  like  to 
paint  him,  once  in  to-day's  dress,  and  then  in  costume, 
with  a  gauntlet  and  black  cloak  and  all  the  rest.  And 
look  you,  Herr  Travers,  his  name  is  not  Massano.  If 
we  knew  the  name  of  the  man  in  the  picture,  we 
should  be  able  to  call  Mr.  Julian  by  a  name  that  would 
make  him  jump." 

There  was  something  in  ZelPs  theory.  I  have  seen 
folks  who  resembled  the  old  portraits  on  their  walls. 
Julian's  face  was  fuller  and  browner,  and  he  had  a 
most  genial  laugh.  I  had  certainly  seen  him  look  any 
thing  but  genial,  however.  Caspar's  curiosity  to  paint 
his  theory  had  now  got  the  upper  hand  with  him,  and 
he  talked  of  nothing  else  for  several  days.  During 
these  we  found  ordinary  sight-seeing  so  flat  that  we 
gave  it  up  and  took  to  modern  Venice,  the  Lido,  the 
cafes,  queer  dances,  and  night  prowling.  We  saw 
nothing  of  Julian,  and  a  strange  idleness  took  posses 
sion  of  Caspar.  He  sketched  nothing.  When  I  spoke 
of  this,  he  gave  as  his  reason  that  seeing  so  much  art 


2 1 8        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

everywhere  was  like  drowning  in  one's  favorite  wine. 
"  The  idea  of  a  palette  nauseates  me,"  he  said.  The 
pianos  were  going  in  every  direction,  as  Venice  pianos 
do.  Probably  a  barcarolle  a  day  was  constructed  on 
each  one.  But  this  energy  only  disgusted  Caspar  the 
more.  "  It  is  swill-tub  music  they  make,"  he  said. 
Then  he  wandered  away,  and  I  did  not  see  him  till 
evening.  A  change  had  come  over  him,  and  he  was 
eager  and  restless.  "  I  have  seen  him  again,"  he  be 
gan  at  once,  "  and  now  I  know  that  there  is  something 
wrong  about  him.  When  he  saw  me,  he  was  not 
friendly.  He  asked  for  you,  and  did  not  chat  with  me 
at  all.  But  I  came  direct  to  the  point.  I  said  I  wished 
very  much  to  paint  him,  and  when  I  said  that,  he 
turned  and  looked  at  me.  Then  he  looked  like  the 
portrait !  '  For  what  reason  do  you  honor  me  so 
much?'  he  asked.  And  when  I  saw  his  eye  I  could 
not  answer.  I  said  I  do  not  know  what ;  and  then  he 
bade  me  good-evening.  But  he  shall  not  escape  me," 
Zell  burst  out  vigorously.  "  I  shall  paint  him  yet.  You 
will  see."  And  he  wagged  his  head  slowly,  and  looked 
vastly  foolish.  "  He  has  an  evil  conscience,  Herr 
Travers,  and  feels  I  suspect  him." 

I  began  to  grow  uneasy  about  all  this.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Julian  was  no  angel,  and  might  let  most 
principles  go  at  any  moment  that  he  found  them  in- 


T/ic  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    219 

convenient.  But  this  was  not  all.  Strangely  agreeable 
as  I  had  found  his  company,  I  found  myself  now  think 
ing  with  Caspar  that  "  something  was  wrong  about 
him."  The  next  morning  we  came  upon  him  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  quay,  fast  asleep. 

"  He  has  spent  the  night  away  from  his  bed,"  said 
Caspar.  "  Hist  !  come  into  this  corner,  and  I  will 
make  now  his  likeness." 

"  Oh,  I  think  not,"  I  replied. 

"  And  why,  pray?  " 

"  Since  he  objects  !  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Zell. 

"  Well ;  only  remember  that  you  '11  be  stealing  a  gen 
tleman's  likeness,"  I  said,  walking  away.  Certainly  I 
was  not  going  to  assist  at  this  larceny  from  the  person. 
The  artist  made  no  further  answer  but  a  grunt,  as  he 
angrily  took  out  his  materials.  Perhaps  it  was  our  talk ; 
perhaps  it  was  the  sun  which  now  came  from  a  cloud 
and  blazed  down  on  the  sleeper's  face ;  but  certainly 
at  the  first  stroke  of  Caspar's  pencil,  Julian  started  to 
his  feet.  The  pencil  rattled  out  of  Zell's  hand  to  the 
ground,  and  the  paper  fluttered  away. 

"  You  are  devoted  to  your  art,  sir,  indeed  !  "  was  all 
the  Italian  said.  But  it  was  enough  to  make  Caspar 
stare  wretchedly  at  him.  I  hastened  to  call  out  a  loud 
good-morning  from  where  I  stood. 


22O,      A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Good-morning,"  Julian  answered.  "  Advise  your 
friend  to  take  better  care  of  himself.  Sad  things 
may  still  happen  to  painters  as  well  as  architects,  in 
Venice,  occasionally."  He  bowed  to  me,  and  was 
gone. 

Zell  seemed  crazed  on  the  subject.  Though  I  saw 
that  no  sense  of  impertinence  would  detain  him,  a 
sense  of  danger  might,  I  thought.  But  I  was  wrong. 
All  day  Caspar  muttered  :  "  I  must  have  his  face.  I 
must  have  his  face.  It  would  be  my  fortune." 

Our  stay  in  Venice  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  my 
hope  was  to  get  Caspar  away  before  he  had  a  chance 
to  commit  some  new  folly.  This  was  not  to  be.  I 
awoke  with  an  unpleasant  start  early  one  morning,  and 
found  the  Weimar  artist  at  my  bedside,  with  a  haggard 
and  vacant  expression.  I  sprang  out  of  bed.  "  In 
God's  name,  what  is  the  matter?"  I  cried. 

"Safe,  safe  !"  was  all  he  could  answer.  Then  he 
sank  into  a  chair  and  steadied  himself  by  its  arms. 
Presently  he  began,  — 

"  I  could  not  sleep.  When  light  dawned  I  walked 
out.  I  went  along  the  edge  of  the  canal  till  I  stood 
opposite  the  garden.  The  spider's  web  was  there,  I 
could  see.  Over  the  wall  the  tree-branches  were  nod 
ding,  nodding.  I  grew  very  cold  watching  them,  and 
so  I  walked  under  the  closed  window.  '  Perhaps  he 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    2  2 1 

sits  inside  with  the  harp  now,'  I  said.  I  waited,  and 
listened,  and  peeped  on  every  side ;  but  all  was  very 
quiet,  and  no  one  was  stirring.  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  turn  homeward.  I  turned,  and  he  was  there, 
leaning  against  the  wall  behind  me." 

Zell's  hands  shook  as  he  gripped  the  arms  of  the 
chair  tighter.  "  I  could  not  lift  my  feet,  and  I  thought 
the  air  was  all  going  in  black  waves.  He  did  not  move, 
and  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  his  face.  His  smile 
was  so  wicked  !  He  only  said, '  You  make  a  poor  spy.' 
He  let  me  stand  there  till  I  tried  to  scream,  but  I 
could  not.  Then  he  said,  '  Do  you  suppose  I  would 
touch  you  ?  Crawl  home  now ;  you  are  not  hurt. 
Paint  some  pictures  if  you  can'  His  black  eyes 
flashed,  and  his  face  —  ach  !  hell  was  in  it.  I  felt  as 
if  something  broke  in  my  head.  He  saw  I  feared  to 
pass  him,  and  walked  swiftly  ahead  of  me,  and  so 
round  a  corner.  When  I  came  to  the  corner  I  dared 
not  pass  it.  I  walked  on  my  toes  as  near  to  the  water 
as  I  could,  and  rushed  by  with  all  my  strength.  A 
horrible  laugh  rang  in  my  ear.  I  do  not  know  how  I 
find  myself  here." 

For  the  last  days  Caspar  Zell  would  not  go  anywhere 
without  me.  "  Let  us  get  away,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
not  feel  right  till  we  are  far,  far  in  Salzkammergut,  — 
streams  rushing  instead  of  these  stagnant  canals,  and 


222        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

pine-trees  in  place  of  walls  ;  and  how  sweet  German 
speech  will  sound  !  " 

He  never  spoke  of  Julian  without  his  voice  becom 
ing  husky.  For  my  part,  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that 
Caspar  had  suffered  any  hurt  beyond  a  severe  fright ; 
his  liberties  might  easily  have  provoked  a  worse  pun 
ishment.  Yet  though  Julian  had  evidently  scorned  to 
retaliate  on  so  little  a  man,  our  visit  to  Venice  still 
seemed  to  have  grown  more  and  more  sinister  since 
the  first  evening.  A  stiletto  would  be  a  fitting  thing 
to  remember  it  by.  All  the  artist  seemed  to  have  left 
Zell.  His  attemps  to  sketch  were  futile. 

"  I  am  become  paralyzed,"  he  bitterly  complained. 
"  Can  you  remember  how  his  hair  went  over  his  fore 
head?  Was  it  not  so?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied.  "That  face  you  are  mak 
ing  is  merely  a  copy  of  the  one  in  the  Louvre.  Young 
Julian  is  swarthy,  not  pale  ;  and  you  are  giving  him 
straight  hair." 

All  day  long  Caspar  spoiled  sheets  of  his  album  in 
vain.  Finally  our  heavier  effects  were  sent  to  wait  for 
us  at  Munich,  and  the  last  day  came.  We  dedicated 
it  to  Torcello,  whither  we  were  rowed  by  two  gondo 
liers.  As  I  stretched  out  in  the  boat,  the  stiletto  fell 
from  my  pocket. 

"  Why  do  you  carry  that?"  inquired  Caspar. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    223 

"  To  show  to  a  dealer  when  we  get  back.  I  want 
to  find  something  about  it  if  I  can." 

The  sky  was  cloudless,  and  the  water  rippled  blue 
beneath  it ;  but  behind  this  sereneness  lurked  a  fore 
boding  I  could  not  shake  off.  We  both  fell  into 
silences,  and  I  doubt  if  we  could  have  told  what  we 
saw  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Fosca,  and  the  two  or  three 
other  places  we  wandered  into.  We  sat  for  a  long  time 
in  the  bell-tower  of  the  old  Cathedral.  The  swallows 
dodged  about,  and  took  care  of  their  second  brood, 
and  in  the  distance  lay  the  Adriatic  and  the  blue 
mountains.  Then  we  descended  and  strolled  into  the 
Cathedral.  A  few  shabby  candles  were  lighted  on  the 
altar,  and  a  shabby  second-best  service  was  performing. 
The  puppets  on  the  steps  below  bobbed  and  changed 
places,  while  a  venerable  puppet  spun  out  Latin  words 
with  incomprehensible  swiftness  and  incoherence. 

"  See  in  the  guide-book  who  is  buried  here,"  said 
Caspar,  stopping  at  a  tomb  in  one  of  the  remoter 
nooks.  "  The  letters  are  effaced,  but  see  what  a  beau 
tiful  girl's  head  !  It  is  an  exquisite  little  carving ;  and 
there  was  another  bust  beside  it,  but  it  is  also  knocked 
off." 

There  was  but  little  light  in  here,  and  I  stooped  to 
reach  a  ray  that  came  from  one  of  the  candles.  My 
pocket  gaped,  and  the  stiletto  rang  on  the  pavement. 


224         A  Week  away  from   Time, 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  a  young  priest  at  my  elbow. 
He  handed  me  the  weapon,  and  the  candlelight  flashed 
on  it.  "  What  a  beautiful  one,  sir  !  You  are  fortunate 
in  having  such  a  curiosity.  Do  not  let  an  antiquary 
take  it  in  his  hands ;  you  will  hardly  get  it  away  from 
him  !  " 

He  smiled,  and  moved  noiselessly  away.  Unable 
to  find  information  about  the  tomb,  we  went  out  into 
the  air  again.  But  Caspar  had  now  one  of  his  strange 
fits  of  restlessness.  He  talked  about  the  girl's  face, 
and  the  companion  bust  that  was  gone. 

"  Some  one  should  know  about  such  a  work  of  art," 
he  repeated.  "There  is  our  young  priest  again." 

He  joined  us,  and  talked  very  pleasantly.  He 
pointed  out  various  bits  we  had  overlooked  in  different 
parts  of  the  island. 

"I  hope  we  are  not  on  your  hands,"  I  said  at  length, 
for  we  had  been  walking  and  talking  for  about  an 
hour. 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  is  so  seldom  to  find  agreeable  guests 
at  Torcello." 

I  had  come  to  be  sure  this  was  a  man  of  refinement. 
We  talked  on  many  subjects,  and  none  of  them  were 
religious  ones.  His  historical  knowledge  of  Venice 
was  most  ample  and  minute,  and  he  delighted  to  dwell 
on  Venice.  I  looked  at  him  with  increasing  interest. 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    225 

His  was  no  dull  eye,  nor  did  he  seem  able  to  compass 
the  typical  priest's  smile  in  all  its  wily  completeness. 
Perhaps  he  had  not  been  long  consecrated  to  the  ser 
vice  of  Mother  Church.  But  his  age  I  could  not  tell ; 
he  might  be  twenty-five,  he  might  be  forty.  His 
figure  was  small  and  slender,  but  he  walked  with  an 
elastic  step.  Yet  these  lingering  suggestions  of  the 
flesh  did  not  go  with  the  rest  of  the  man.  His  face 
was  transparent,  and  there  was  an  unearthly  sadness 
in  his  voice.  The  black  dress  hung  upon  him  sombre 
enough  for  a  pall,  yet  he  did  not  seem  a  man  doomed 
by  disease.  I  was  constantly  struck  with  the  liberality 
of  his  ideas.  At  length  it  became  time  to  go,  but  Zell 
spoke  up,  — 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  you  could  tell  us  something  of  a  tomb 
we  saw  in  the  Cathedral." 

"  I  can,"  said  the  priest ;  "  but  it  is  not  often 
told." 

I  thought  Zell  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  say 
something  about  money  ;  so  I  said  quickly,  — 

"  I  know  we  are  profane  tourists ;  but  could  you 
not  match  my  stiletto  with  a  story  equally  rare?  " 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps  ;  yes,  for  the  sake  of  the  stiletto  I 
will.  To  him  that  hath  —  "  He  turned  back  to  the 
Cathedral  without  ending  the  quotation.  "  Come  with 
me." 


226        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

We  found  ourselves  again  by  the  tomb.  The  ser 
vice  was  over,  the  puppets  gone ;  no  one  now  but  a 
lonely  old  woman  kneeling  in  a  corner. 

"The  tomb  is  in  memory  of  two,  as  you  see,"  said 
the  priest ;  "  but  only  one  lies  beneath.  Is  she  not 
beautiful  ?  How  sweet  a  mouth !  Has  she  not  a 
divine  face?  One  would  say  a  saint." 

"  What  was  the  sculptor's  name?  "  asked  Zell. 

The  priest  turned  to  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  Sir,  I  cannot  tell  you.  He  is  one  of  the  children 
whom  the  father  Time  has  baptized  '  Ignoto.'  But  we 
know  that  her  name  was  Margaret.  She  was  not  a  Vene 
tian.  Perhaps  you  may  have  seen  in  the  city  a  palace 
with  one  of  the  upper  windows  walled  -up.  Yes?  That 
is  where  Margaret  lived,  though  it  was  not  her  home. 
Sit  down  on  that  ledge  and  I  will  tell  you  about  her. 
You  remember  that  our  great  Titian  went  to  Rome  and 
Florence,  and  returned  here  more  glorious  than  when 
he  set  out.  His  wife  had  died,  and  he  seemed  greatly 
aged  by  it,  for  a  man  of  his  vigor.  I  think  it  was  just 
as  well  she  never  knew  what  a  wretch  the  son  she  had 
brought  into  the  world  turned  out." 

"Who?"  I  asked. 

"  Her  son  Pomponio,  —  a  miserable  villain.  Titian 
brought  a  young  girl  back  with  him.  Who  she  was 
exactly,  people  never  knew.  He  called  her  Margaret, 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    227 

and  people  said  she  was  his  own  granddaughter, 
Pomponio's  child.  He  never  allowed  her  to  see  Pom- 
ponio,  at  any  rate.  Pomponio  had  become  a  priest. 
She  called  Titian  'godfather,'  and  whenever  he  stayed 
in  the  houses  of  great  people  (as  he  usually  did  when 
he  painted  their  portraits),  she  always  went  with  him. 
He  guarded  her  very  closely,  and  very  few  people  knew 
what  she  looked  like,  though  the  young  men  used  to 
talk  about  her  face  and  her  singing.  If  she  had  Titian's 
blood  in  her  veins,  that  would  account  for  her  mar 
vellous  skill  at  all  embroidery.  Somewhere  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  century  her  godfather  went  to  the  Palace  of 
the  Closed  Window  to  paint  its  master.  It  was  then 
lived  in  by  two  brothers,  Vitale  and  Giulio  Civran. 
They  were  as  proud  as  anybody  in  those  times.  Vitale 
was  married,  and  had  children.  Young  Giulio  was  still 
a  wild  fellow  about  town.  While  Titian  was  at  work  on 
Vitale's  portrait,  Margaret  used  to  sit  by  him  with  her 
embroidery ;  and  so  you  can  see  how  it  went.  Vitale 
looked  at  her  day  after  day,  and  determined  to  make 
her  his.  He  became  very  gracious  ;  none  could  be 
more  so.  The  maestro,  he  said,  painted  too  well  to 
dine  alone  ;  would  he  not  sit  at  the  family  board  ?  The 
maestro  never  crossed  the  wills  of  his  noble  hosts  if 
he  could  help  it,  and  so  now  he  made  one  of  the  com 
pany,  with  the  family  chaplain.  The  chaplain  should 


228        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

never  have  taken  orders.  He  had  known  a  young 
man's  life  in  Venice  too,  and  was  too  great  a  friend  of 
Giulio's  to  have  any  influence  over  him.  But  Giulio 
told  him  all  his  secrets  ;  and  that  was  how,  when  Mar 
garet  did  not  come  to  table  with  her  godfather,  that 
the  young  priest  knew  why.  She  was  afraid  to  meet 
her  lover  Giulio  in  company.  Vitale  was  much  too 
cunning  to  allude  to  her,  but  he  managed  to  meet  her 
several  times,  and  it  maddened  him  to  find  that  he 
could  not  make  any  impression  upon  her  heart.  His 
suits  did  not  often  fail,  so  he  began  to  think.  Of  late 
he  had  remarked  that  hjs  brother  Giulio  had  become 
wonderfully  well-behaved.  Instead  of  disappearing  for 
several  days  at  a  time,  he  was  most  domestic.  The 
chaplain  was  very  glad,  for  he  thought  Margaret  a  meet 
wife  for  any  man. 

"  But  one  night  Vitale  crept  up  a  little  staircase  and 
listened.  He  heard  soft  music  in  Margaret's  room, 
and  softer  voices,  and  laughter.  He  ground  his  teeth, 
and  came  near  bursting  in.  Then  he  heard  the  lovers 
talk.  Margaret  was  being  comforted  for  her  fears. 
She  told  Giulio  that  their  happiness  could  not  last. 
Giulio  swore  it  should  last  as  long  as  their  lives.  But 
her  heart  trembled  for  his  safety.  Vitale  terrified  her, 
she  said.  Her  eye  had  seen  his  evil  look  while  he  sat 
for  his  portrait.  Vitale,  standing  in  the  dark  staircase, 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    229 

heard  them  pour  out  their  hearts  to  each  other,  and  in 
Giulio's  arms  Margaret  forgot  her  terrors.  This  was 
their  plan.  The  next  night  Giulio  was  to  go  out  on  a 
pretended  carousal,  and  come  back  at  twelve.  The 
chaplain  was  to  be  smuggled  into  her  room  by  the 
little  staircase.  They  were  to  be  married,  and  fly  fof 
a  time,  till  Titian's  wrath  should  cool  when  he  saw  what 
a  good  husband  Giulio  made  for  his  ward. 

"  Vitale  had  heard  enough.  He  went  to  his  friend 
Pomponio,  and  told  him  that  Titian  was  playing  a 
game  in  his  household.  A  young  gallant  paid  nightly 
visits  to  Margaret.  This  stung  Pomponio  to  the  quick. 
The  idea  of  his  father's  double  hypocrisy  in  keeping 
him  away  from  his  child  and  compassing  her  ruin 
himself,  drove  him  wild.  Vitale  (who  knew  that 
Pomponio  was  Margaret's  father)  played  well  upon  his 
feelings,  and  together  they  hatched  a  model  plan. 
The  chaplain  was  to  be  got  rid  of;  Pomponio  was  to 
be  admitted  to  his  room  and  pass  for  him.  '  I  cannot 
permit  a  scandal  like  this  to  be  in  my  house,'  said 
Vitale.  '  And  your  name  must  be  shielded  from  such 
a  family  stain.  You  shall  accompany  me  into  Marga 
ret's  chamber,  and  you  shall  make  them  man  and  wife. 
I  choose  you  to  do  this  instead  of  the  chaplain,  so  that 
the  matter  shall  be  known  to  no  outsiders.'  Vitale  was 
clever  enough  to  make  Pomponio  think  that  he  and 


230        A  }Vcck  away  from   Time. 

his  brother  Giulio  were  acting  in  concert.  '  Giulio  will 
summon  you  about  midnight,'  he  said.  '  We  will  ar 
range  the  rest  upstairs.  Keep  your  face  concealed.' 

'•  The  next  dusk  came,  and  Vitale  paid  his  chaplain 
a  visit.  He  invited  him  to  walk  into  the  chapel.  '  I 
am  thinking  of  improving  it,'  he  said.  '  The  Church 
will  be  well  pleased  with  such  devotion  from  your 
family,'  answered  the  chaplain,  wondering  a  little. 
'  See/  continued  Vitale,  '  this  old  chamber  for  vest 
ments  might  go.  It  would  make  space,  and  a  window 
could  be  put  up  in  honor  of  our  Saint  Ambrose.'  He 
unlocked  the  door  with  a  key  he  held  in  his  hand. 
The  priest  peered  into  the  darkness,  and  pitched  head 
long  thirty  feet.  Vitale  laughed,  and  sent  a  prayer- 
book  fluttering  down  after  him.  '  Read  the  marriage 
or  the  funeral  service,  whichever  you  prefer.'  The 
bolt  shot,  and  Vitale  left  the  chapel. 

"Meanwhile  Giulio  wandered  about  the  city,  wait 
ing  for  the  appointed  time  to  come.  He  visited 
some  of  his  old  haunts,  and  was  laughed  at  for  his 
new  soberness.  At  last  he  was  at  the  chaplain's 
door.  From  the  darkness  of  the  room,  Pomponio, 
who  had  been  waiting,  followed  him  out.  They 
stepped  noiselessly  through  the  black  halls  and  up 
the  stairs.  Giulio,  in  front,  heard  the  stealthy  tread 
of  the  priest  behind  him.  Pomponio,  as  much  a 
dupe  as  Giulio,  in  his  turn,  heard  another  step 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    231 

following  in  the  dark  below,  and  wondered  what  part 
whoever  it  was  would  be  called  on  to  play.  Margaret 
met  the  two  first  at  the  door,  and  Pomponio  marvelled 
that  she  showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  that  his  com 
panion  was  the  younger  Civran.  '  Now  begin,  quick,' 
said  the  lover  eagerly.  Pomponio  raised  his  face  in 
quiringly.  With  a  terrible  oath  at  seeing  him,  Giulio 
wrenched  out  his  sword.  At  the  same  instant  Margaret 
shrieked  and  rushed  into  his  arms ;  she  had  seen  Vitale 
glide  in.  The  sword  pierced  her  body  as  Vitale's  dagger 
plunged  into  his  brother's  shoulder  up  to  the  hilt.  The 
main  door  burst  open,  and  at  it  stood  rooted  the  gray- 
bearded  Titian,  who  had  heard  his  girl's  cry.  She  was 
dead ;  but  Giulio,  with  an  effort,  wrenched  himself 
round  on  the  floor  so  that  he  saw  Titian.  '  Ah,  it  is 
a  house  of  assassins,  is  it ! '  he  exclaimed,  and  hurled 
his  sword  wildly  at  the  appalled  painter.  It  was  the 
end.  The  weapon  fell  harmless  midway,  and  Giulio 
rolled  over  by  his  bride's  body.  Pomponio  wisely  con 
cealed  himself  from  Titian.  Giulio's  death  made  it  easy 
for  Yitale  to  invent  a  plausible  explanation  of  the  affair 
to  the  old  painter,  whose  heart  was  nearly  broken.  He 
sorrowed  with  the  admirable  Vitale  over  their  common 
bereavement.  Vitale  secretly  sent  Pomponio  to  look 
after  the  chaplain,  and  Pomponio,  seeing  that  he  was 
dying,  confessed  to  him  his  share  in  the  plot.  The 


232        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

chaplain  died  in  a  few  hours,  and  Pomponio  and  Vitale 
kept  their  secret.  Margaret  lies  here ;  but  Giulio's 
body  was  never  found." 

The  priest's  story  was  finished,  and  its  effect  was 
to  stun  my  reason.  We  all  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 
There  I  put  some  gold  pieces  into  a  box  marked 
"  For  the  restoration  of  the  Church." 

"  I  hope,"  I  said,  "  that  some  of  it  may  go  to  replac 
ing  the  bust  of  the  ill-starred  Giulio  by  the  side  of  his 
Margaret." 

"  It  would  be  but  an  imaginary  likeness,  sir,"  mur 
mured  the  priest. 

"Something  like  this?"  said  Caspar  suddenly.  His 
pencil  traced  a  rapid  sketch  of  the  portrait  in  the 
Louvre. 

How  shall  I  describe  what  happened  ?  I  heard  an 
unearthly  cry  from  the  priest.  A  fierce  wind  napped 
the  curtains  that  hung  over  the  entrance  of  the  Cathe 
dral,  and  we  were  all  enveloped  in  their  choking  folds. 
When  I  extricated  myself,  Caspar  and  I  were  alone, 
and  the  stiletto  was  gone  from  my  pocket. 

The  sun  was  near  setting ;  we  could  stay  here  no 
longer.  I  searched  for  a  moment  among  the  crevices 
of  the  stone-work,  but  I  knew  such  search  was  idle. 
We  got  into  our  gondola  and  started  back.  One 
phrase  of  Julian's  had  struck  me  with  haunting  signifi- 


The  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    233 

cance.  He  had  told  us  we  should  remember  him  with 
out  the  stiletto.  Our  gondoliers  sang  at  first  as  they 
rowed  us  along ;  soon,  however,  they  grew  as  silent  as 
ourselves.  The  night  came  down  midway  on  our 
journey,  and  when  we  landed,  the  lights  were  twinkling 
in  the  water.  Our  train  was  to  leave  the  next  morning 
at  half-past  four.  It  was  now  too  late  for  dinner  at  the 
hotel,  so  we  got  some  food  at  a  cafe.  I  do  not  remem 
ber  that  we  spoke  at  all.  If  we  said  anything,  it  was  of 
the  most  commonplace  sort.  We  sat  outside  the  caf6 
until  it  grew  late.  It  hardly  seemed  possible  to  go  to  bed. 
We  hailed  a  gondola,  and  had  ourselves  rowed  idly  about. 
Near  the  Ponte  del  Paradise  I  felt  my  arm  clutched. 

"There  he  is  !  "  said  Caspar  hoarsely. 

I  looked,  and  saw  Julian  walking  slowly  up  the  steps. 
I  spoke  to  him,  but  he  did  not  turn.  He  passed  under 
the  image  of  the  Virgin  into  the  narrow  calle.  Then  I 
noticed  a  figure  shadowing  him,  that  came  from  I  know 
not  where. 

"  We  must  see  about  this,"  I  said  to  Caspar. 

We  both  landed,  and  entered  the  calle.  The  figures 
were  some  distance  ahead,  and  we  hastened  our  steps. 
We  threaded  our  way  through  a  maze  of  turns,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  in  the  same  direction  we  had  once 
followed  Julian  before.  The  quarter  changed  from  a 
deserted  one  to  a  place  full  of  animation  as  we  went 


234        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

farther  into  it.  Lights  gleamed,  many  figures  passed 
to  and  fro,  and  strains  of  music  filled  the  air.  Julian 
ascended  some  steps,  and  we  followed.  This  house 
was  brilliant  with  light,  and  from  the  open  upper  win 
dows  came  the  thud  and  jingle  of  tambourines.  One 
or  two  dominos  flitted  by  us.  We  found  ourselves  at 
the  doors  of  a  wild  fancy  ball.  The  figures  of  men  and 
women  in  rich  costumes  filled  several  rooms.  Julian 
wore  a  very  handsome  dress  himself.  Several  people 
spoke  to  him.  and  seemed  to  ask  him  to  join  the  revels, 
but  he  walked  quietly  through  the  throng.  At  length 
a  very  pretty  girl  danced  up  to  him  laughing,  and 
pulled  him  forward,  but  he  smiled  down  on  her  and 
shook  his  head.  Never  have  I  seen  a  happier  look  on 
any  man's  face.  Could  Caspar  have  painted  him  as 
he  was  now,  his  fame  would  indeed  have  been  secure. 
The  girl  put  her  arms  as  nearly  round  Julian's  neck  as 
she  could,  but  he  made  no  return  of  her  caress.  Then 
she  left  him  with  pouting  lips,  and  joined  a  young 
fellow  who  seemed  contented  enough  with  his  good- 
fortune.  Another  figure  was  speaking  to  Julian.  The 
music  had  grown  wilder,  and  the  dance  was  whirling 
with  spectral  rapidity.  I  looked  at  the  gaudily  painted 
walls ;  they  seemed  oddly  familiar.  Could  they  bear 
any  relation  to  the  blistered  remains  of  those  old  haunts 
Julian  had  shown  us?  I  had  no  time  to  think  of 


1  he  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window.    235 

anything,  for  Julian  now  was  leaving  the  hall.  He 
descended  into  the  street,  and  once  more  I  saw  the 
figure  creep  after  him.  For  an  instant  I  was  near 
enough  behind  him  to  have  been  able  to  swear  it  was 
Julian's  double,  so  like  was  his  gait  and  build,  though 
he  seemed  somehow  like  an  older  man.  But  I  could 
not  see  his  face.  The  walk  began  again.  The  pace 
increased,  for  Julian  was  hurrying  with  more  speed  at 
every  turn.  Lamps,  doorways,  black  water,  then  walls 
again,  all  whizzed  by.  We  had  begun  to  run  ;  but  as 
Caspar  and  I  did  not  know  the  ground,  we  stumbled 
here,  made  a  wrong  turn  there,  and  found  at  length 
that  the  figures  had  utterly  disappeared.  We  groped 
about  for  a  moment,  and  found  ourselves  opposite  a 
garden  wall.  A  lamp  revealed  the  Palacp  of  the  Closed 
Window  looming  above  us.  Then  from  an  upper  floor 
came  a  piercing  scream ;  then  nothing  but  the  water 
lapping  lazily  against  the  stones.  A  violent  grip  was 
laid  on  my  arm,  and  I  saw  Caspar's  face,  hideous  with 
terror. 

"  Up  —  up  there  !  "  he  gasped. 

The  space  of  the  walled  window  was  lambent  with 
a  vapory  light.  Caspar  swayed  and  staggered  so  that 
I  had  to  exert  all  my  force  to  keep  him  from  slipping 
into  the  water.  Suddenly  a  dark  mass  filled  part  of  the 
window.  Something  plunged  through  the  air,  and  fell 


236        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

into  the  canal  with  a  splash.  My  eyes  for  one  instant 
saw  Julian's  face,  ghastly  with  death,  and  then  the 
water  closed  above  him  in  turbulent  eddies. 

Over  the  heaving  surface  swept  a  black  garment, 
and  the  young  priest  of  Torcello  passed  close  and 
melted  into  the  night.  By  some  inward  flash  of  the 
mind  it  was  revealed  to  me  that  it  was  the  murdered 
chaplain  who  had  talked  with  us  by  the  tomb  in  that 
dim  church  corner. 

When  the  good  people  at  the  Three  Wise  Men  came 
to  the  spot  at  our  instance,  and  heard  what  we  had 
to  say,  they  were  of  the  opinion  that  our  dinner  at 
the  cafe  had  put  us  in  the  humor  for  practical  jokes. 
Nothing  could  persuade  them  to  inform  the  police. 

"  Why,  that  is  the  Palace  of  the  Closed  Window,  and 
the  Signori  tell  us  that  they  saw  through  a  wall !  Eh  ! 
body  of  Bacchus  !  the  Signori  are  merry  ! "  said  they. 

In  three  hours  we  had  left  Venice. 

Some  time  ago  I  had  a  despondent  letter  from  Cas 
par.  He  wrote  that  all  creative  talent  in  him  seemed 
dead.  He  traced  it  to  that  morning  when  he  had 
encountered  Julian  alone.  The  last  accounts  of  him 
were,  that  he  had  given  up  his  Weimar  studio  and 
gone  to  Paris,  where  I  am  told  he  has  taken  to  making 
copies  of  the  picture  in  the  Louvre. 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        237 

No  one  spoke  for  some  time  after  Ralph  had 
finished.  The  breeze  had  almost  died  away,  and 
the  "  Hope's"  sail  flapped  gently  as  she  glided 
through  the  water  whose  ripples  were  full  of 
phosphorescent  gleams.  Fleecy  clouds  veiled 
the  moon,  which  had  begun  to  wane,  and  had 
taken  on  to-night  a  reserved  air  of  mystery,  as 
if  it  had  been  for  something  in  Ralph's  story, 
and  might  have  elucidated  some  dark  points. 

Presently  Mrs.  Chauncey  said :  "  Well,  Mr. 
Travers,  your  story  is  grewsome  indeed.  I  am 
sure  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  with  dreaming  of 
that  dreadful  Vitale  and  that  fascinating  Giulio 
and  poor,  dear  Margaret.  But  why  was  the 
stiletto  taken  away?  And  why — " 

"  You  must  n't  ask  me,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  have 
only  told  the  story  as  it  happened.  You  must 
ask  the  moon.  See  what  a  weird,  mysterious 
smile  she  wears.  She  will  tell  you  to-night,  in 
those  sleepless  dreams  of  yours." 

They  made  two  boatloads  from  the  yacht  to 
the  landing.  Ralph  and  Mrs.  Chauncey  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bowdoin  went  off  first,  and  when 
the  gig  came  back  the  rest  got  into  it,  and  Charlie 


238        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

Wyatt  went  with  them.  As  he  took  Muriel's 
hand  to  help  her  out  of  the  boat,  he  said,  "  Re 
member,  my  light  burns  always  for  you.  Ah, 
if  I  could  only  think  you  looked  out  of  your 
window  sometimes,  and  gave  one  kind  thought 
to  the  poor  fellow  who  lies  awake  hour  after 
hour,  and  paces  the  deck  in  the  night-watches 
thinking  of  you  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  was  Muriel's  only  reply. 

"Good-night!"  "Good-night!"  sounded  in 
the  air  from  many  voices. 

Charlie  Wyatt's  manly  tones  shouted,  "  Atten 
tion  !  Dip  oars !  Give  way !  "  and  the  boat 
shot  silently  and  quickly  out  of  the  harbor. 

When  Muriel  stood  at  her  window  an  hour  or 
two  later,  it  was  very  dark  outside.  The  wind 
had  risen,  and  the  waters  sounded  angry  and 
threatening.  The  "  Hope's"  light  burned  on, — 
the  only  spot  of  light  to  be  seen.  —  and  by  its 
gleam  the  vessel  seemed  to  be  pitching  and 
tossing  as  if  impatient  at  being  held  fast; 
"  frenetic  to  be  free."  Muriel  turned  from  the 
window.  Were  there  tears  in  her  eyes? 


The  hour  which  might  have  been,  yet  might  not  be. 

.    on  what  shore 
Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary  sea  ? 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

But  only  the  one  Hope's  one  name  be  there, 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 

IBID. 


FIFTH   DAY. 

IT  had  rained  in  the  night,  but  the  day  dawned 
brilliantly. 

"  We  shall  hear  Bell's  story  by  the  big  oak- 
tree,"  said  Mrs.  Temple.  "We  will  carry  camp- 
chairs  and  shawls  and  rugs." 

"  You  will  all  get  wet  driving  through  the 
woods ;  I  warn  you  to  wear  waterproof  gar 
ments,"  said  Mr.  Bowdoin.  "  Margaret  will  prob 
ably  tell  you  no  one  takes  cold  by  being  wet  at 
Fair  Harbor.  I  believe  she  thinks  the  rain 
is  mixed  with  Jamaica  ginger  and  hot-drops. 
Nevertheless,  I  advise  wraps." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Mrs.  Chauncey,  "  what 
did  Mrs.  Nye  mean  the  other  day  by  saying 
there  were  more  '  waterers '  here  than  usual 
this  fall?  I  haven't  seen  a  water-cart  since  I 
came." 

The  others  laughed  heartily,  and  Ralph  said : 
"  It  is  a  local  expression,  Mrs.  Chauncey,  and 
16 


242        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

reminds  me  of  a  conversation  I  heard  early 
this  morning  between  Jim  Canaan  and  Miss 
Carr-Wynstede's  maid,  which  will  answer  your 
question.  I  was  in  the  stable,  and  they  were 
standing  just  outside,  Marie  gathering  lemon- 
balm  to  make  '  tisane  de  melisse,'  she  told  me. 
I  shall  dramatize  the  conversation :  — 

Jim.  Won't  you  come  out  for  a  bit  of  a  sail, 
Miss  Maree?  [By  the  bye,  you  know  he  has 
christened  his  catamaran  the  "Maree"!] 

Marie.  I  have  fear;  it  makes  much  wind  to 
day. 

Jim.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It 's  just  a  good  little 
breeze  that'll  send  the  boat  hummin'.  You  ain't 
like  them  waterers  that  calls  a  cupful  of  wind 
a  squall. 

Marie.  What  is  it  a  waterer,  and  what  is  it  a 
squall?  I  know  them  not. 

Jim.  Well,  a  waterer  is  a  party  from  the  city 
that  comes  down  here  to  stop,  and  they  mostly 
begins  by  sayin'  they  likes  sailin'  better  'n  any 
thing,  and  then  you  take  'em  out  in  the  little 
harbor  here,  where  you  can  sail  a  child's  boat, 
and  they  screeches  and  wants  to  land  before 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        243 

they  gets  out  into  deep  water,  and  talks  about 
squalls  and  storms  and  bein'  seasick.  That's 
a  waterer.  And  a  squall  —  well,  a  squall 's  half 
a  gale. 

Marie.  Ah,  I  see.  Well,  as  you  say  I  am  not 
like  a  waterer,  and  you  are  sure  there  will  be 
no  tempest,  I  will  go.  Mademoiselle  said  I 
might." 

•"  She  did  go,"  said  Muriel,  "  and  came  back 
in  a  fine  flush  of  excitement  and  sunburn.  I 
don't  know  about  that  attractive  '  homme  aux 
homards  !  '  I  should  like  to  take  Marie  home 
with  me." 

The  Professor  came  just  then  to  claim  Muriel's 
promise  to  walk  to  Wood's  Holl  with  him.  He 

was  going  to  see  his  friend  Professor  B d,  of 

the  Fish  Commission,  and  he  wanted  to  show 
Muriel  the  Government  Buildings  there,  and 
present  to  her  the  amiable  gentleman  who  pre 
sided  over  the  wonders  of  the  deep. 

"  What  a  charming  creature  that  English  girl 
is,  to  be  sure ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chauncey. 
"  What  a  pity  she  is  n't  an  American !  She 
does  n't  seem  to  be  a  bit  like  the  others,  — '  Lady 


244        -A  Week  away  from   Time. 

Barberina,'  for  instance ;  for  I  always  think  of  her 
as  a  real  person." 

"  No,  she  is  not  in  the  least  like  Lady  Bar 
berina,"  said  Mrs.  Bowdoin,  "  and  yet  —  she  is 
not  like  us.  It  is  such  folly  to  talk  about  our 
being  cousins,  and  coming  from  the  same  stock, 
and  all  that.  We  are  as  different  from  them 
as  possible ;  in  education,  in  tastes,  in  ideas,  in 
manners,  —  every  way.  In  England,  where  I 
was  constantly  told  about  blood  being  stronger 
than  water,  and  how,  after  all,  we  ongJit  to  feel 
at  home  there,  and  what  sympathy  should  ex 
ist  between  two  nations,  one  the  child  of  the 
other, — the  same  speech,  same  religion,  and  all 
the  rest,  —  I  generally  assented,  for  of  course 
it  was  meant  as  a  compliment,  and  Americans 
don't  like  to  seem  rude.  English  people  don't 
mind  it,  and  so  perhaps  speak  more  truths  than 
we.  But  once  I  burst  out  before  an  innocent 
British  female  who  was  going  on  in  that  strain, 
and  almost  astonished  her  to  death  by  saying, 
'  No,  no !  it  is  no  such  thing !  We  are  not  at 
all  like  you.  We  don't  dress  like  you  '  (Heaven 
forbid  !),  '  nor  speak  like  you  '  (the  more  's  the 


A    Week  away  from   Time,        245 

pity !),  '  nor  look  nor  think  nor  act  nor  love  nor 
hate  like  you.  For  myself,  I  am  at  home  in 
France  with  French  people,  and  in  Italy  with 
the  Italians ;  not  in  England  with  the  English.' 
The  good  lady  opened  her  eyes,  and  answered 
never  a  word.  But  I  spoke  the  truth." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Mrs.  Chauncey,  "  that 
in  the  matter  of  dress  they  have  immensely  im 
proved  of  late  years.  Some  of  the  really  nicest 
people  dress  very  well.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid 
they  make  American  women  look  as  if  they 
were  a  little  over-dressed,  —  as  if  Worth  and  the 
rest  had  been  too  much  for  them,  —  and  when 
Englishwomen  do  have  good  figures,  they  are 
uncommonly  good.  I  cannot  understand  why 
they  should  have  such  beautiful  long  throats 
and  long  limbs,  just  because  long  throats  and 
limbs  are  the  fashion,  brought  in  by  Burne 
Jones  and  those  sub-Raphaelite  folks.  In  a 
Redfern-cut  dress  and  jacket,  fitting  as  the  Eng 
lish  tailors  alone  do  fit,  I  make  them  my  best 
bow,  compelled  by  a  sense  of  justice,  not  be 
cause  I  care  to  bow  to  them,  Heaven  knows. 
You  'd  better  never  bow  to  an  Englishwoman 


246        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

first,  if  you  can  help  it;  as  a  rule,  if  you  let 
them  alone  and  look  the  other  way,  you  '11  find 
them  saluting  you." 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  one  curious  thing 
about  English  people?"  asked  Margaret.  "  They 
call  everybody  '  foreigners '  but  themselves,  no 
matter  where  they  may  happen  to  be.  Once  in 
Rome  an  English  lady  said  to  me,  '  I  see  you 
pass  much  of  your  time  with  foreigners  here ! 
Do  you  like  foreigners  ? '  '  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 
said  I ;  'whom  do  you  call  foreigners?  English? 
Americans?  Russians?'  '  Oh  no,'  she  replied, 
'  I  meant  Romans.  I  see  you  so  much  with 
Romans ! '  She  really  seemed  to  think  that 
Romans  were  the  '  forestieri '  on  their  own  soil, 
and  she  the  native  inhabitant  and  proprietor. 
It  is  very  amusing." 

"  Kirkland  seems  to  have  been  a  good  deal 
disgusted  in  England  and  on  the  Continent," 
said  Ralph,  "with  the  silly,  undignified  way  in 
which  American  girls,  and  still  worse,  American 
mothers,  behave  with  regard  to  society.  It  has 
been  the  fashion  lately,  especially  among  the 
English,  to  '  take  up  '  Americans,  as  they  call 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        247 

it.  The  very  phrase  is  offensive.  We,  who  see 
in  our  American  women  everything  that  is  most 
charming,  are  at  first  disposed  to  think  it  quite 
natural  that  they  should  be  noticed  and  admired. 
And  looked  at  in  one  light,  it  is  all  very  nice 
and  flattering.  But,  by  Jove  !  it  makes  my  blood 
boil  to  see  and  hear  the  sort  of  thing  that  goes 
on  sometimes.  The  '  certain  condescension  in 
foreigners,'  that  Lowell  writes  about,  tinges  a 
great  deal  of  the  attention  our  country  men  and 
women  receive,  and  makes  a  sensitive  person 
wince  and  want  to  kick  somebody.  We  all 
know  that  there  is  nothing  an  English  husband 
or  brother  of  decent  pride  likes  less  than  that 
his  wife  or  sister  should  be  made  conspicuous 
by  the  smiles  and  favor  of  a  certain  high  per 
sonage,  whose  smiles  and  favors  are  too  pro 
miscuous  and  too  compromising  to  be  desirable; 
yet  I  have  seen  lovely  American  cheeks  flush 
and  eyes  glisten,  and  have  almost  heard  hearts 
beat  with  excitement  and  pleasure,  if  only  those 
royal  eyes  turned  upon  them ;  and  if  he  asked 
to  have  them  presented,  and  —  oh,  joy  of  joys  !  — 
if  he  took  them  out  in  the  waltz,  or  in  to  supper 


248        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

on  his  august  arm,  their  cup  of  happiness  over 
flowed.  And  the  blackguards  they  marry,  to  be 
called  My  Lady,  and  to  belong  to  his  Royal 
Highness's  set !  It  is  unbelievable  !  " 

"If  American  girls  choose  to  transplant  them 
selves,  and  marry  Englishmen  for  titles  and 
position,  giving  their  handfuls  of  silver  for  the 
ribbon  on  their  lords'  coats,  or  their  place  in 
Debrctt,  it  is  their  own  affair;  but  that  an 
American  man  should  take  to  himself  an  Eng 
lish  wife,  and  run  the  risk  of  enduring,  like  Lady 
Barberina's  husband,  an  ignominious  exile,  or 
else  of  keeping  his  wife  over  here  bound  to  be 
unhappy  and  forever  homesick,  seems  to  me 
little  short  of  madness." 

All  this  Mrs.  Bowdoin  uttered  quite  fast  and 
rather  irrelevantly,  standing  outside  the  window 
as  she  spoke,  and  apparently  addressing  Polly. 

"  That's  so  !  That's  so  !  "  shouted  Polly,  who 
was  in  great  spirits  to-day. 

Nobody  knew  Ralph's  opinion  on  this  point, 
for  he  seemed  to  be  suddenly  needed  in  the 
stable,  as  he  marched  off  in  that  direction. 

"  I   meant   every  word  of  that,  Polly,"    said 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        249 

Mrs.  Bowdoin  gravely.  And  Polly  mumbled 
something  which  savored  of  approval. 

"  We  had  better  start  for  the  tree  betimes 
after  lunch,  don't  you  think?"  said  Margaret. 
"  I  thought  we  would  make  no  pretence  of  a 
picnic  to-day.  It  is  so  much  more  comfortable 
to  get  home  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  eat 
it  nicely  at  a  table  like  Christians." 

Muriel  and  the  Professor  came  back  just  be 
fore  luncheon,  the  Professor  bearing  a  tin  pail 
filled  with  water  in  which  was  a  beautiful  "  Por 
tuguese  man-of-war,"  which  one  of  the  men 
had  brought  in  while  they  were  at  the  Fish 
Commission. 

"And  yet  they  laugh  about  the  Gulf  Stream," 
said  Margaret.  "  Wait  till  you  see  the  Spanish 
mackerel  I  have  for  your  dinner,  and  see  if  you 
think  they  would  be  better  in  Florida  !  " 

They  had  at  last  arranged  themselves  under 
the  oak-tree.  Some  were  in  riding-habits,  and 
some  had  driven.  Bell  had  the  seat  of  honor, 
with  her  back  to  the  tree,  in  the  Scheveningen 
chair  (a  wagonful  of  chairs  and  cushions  having 


250        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

been  sent  on  before  them),  and  the  others 
grouped  themselves  in  front  of  her. 

"  I  am  a  good  deal  agitated,"  she  said. 
"  The  branches  really  hit  hard  and  hurt  me  as 
we  drove  through  the  woods,  and  I  was  soaked 
with  water.  Give  me  the  very  thickest  of  those 
rugs,  please,  Tom.  It  is  extremely  damp  on 
the  ground.  How  can  you  lose  all  sense  of 
truth  as  you  do  here,  Margaret?  It  is  very  sad. 
You  are  like  an  '  enfant  du  midi,'  when  it  comes 
to  the  Cape.  Do  you  remember  what  Daudet 
says  of  the  'enfant  du  midi'  in  that  most  de- 
liciously  witty  book,  'Tartarin  de  Tarascon'? 
'L'homme  du  midi  ne  ment  pas  ;  il  se  trompe. 
II  ne  dit  pas  toujours  la  verite,  mais  il  croit  le 
dire.  Son  mensonge  a  lui,  ce  n'est  pas  le  men- 
songe,  c'est  le  mirage.'  With  Margaret,  Gulf 
Stream  stands  for  'mirage.'" 

"Now,  having  basely  accused  your  best  and 
only  sister  of  falsehood,"  said  Margaret,  laugh 
ing,  "where  is  your  story?" 

"Here  it  is,"  said  Bell,  producing  it  from 
the  folds  of  her  wrap.  "  It  looks  to  be  rather 
a  bulky  manuscript,  but  somehow  or  other  I 


In   War-Time.  251 


could  n't  stop.  I  intended  to  keep  to  a  dry 
statement  of  some  facts  that  were  told  to  me 
a  few  years  ago,  but  I  found  my  pencil  running 
away  with  me.  I  fancy  it 's  also  an  effect  of  the 
Gulf  Stream;  it  weakens  one's  character.  I 
have  heard  too  that  diffuseness  is  a  fault  of 
young  authors." 

"  It 's  a  trifle  hard  on  their  readers  some 
times,"  said  Tom  quietly. 

"  How  sorry  you  would  be  if  you  were  made 
to  go  out  in  that  punt  and  fish  for  pickerel,  and 
so  lose  the  hearing  of  it !  "  his  wife  answered 
seriously;  and  then,  as  he  looked  repentant,  she 
began. 

IN    WAR-TIME; 
OR,   ONLY    A    WOMAN'S    SHOE. 

Ix  the  autumn  of  1870,  when  poor  France  was 
reading  the  last  pages  of  her  record  of  insufficiency 
and  defeat,  it  so  happened  that  a  regiment  of  Uhlans 
was  quartered  in  the  little  French  town  of  -  — .  It 
would  be  of  no  purpose  were  I  to  tell  the  name  of  the 
town,  or,  indeed,  of  the  regiment,  as  a  bit  of  mystery  is 
always  best  when  a  story  is  half  true.  Naturally  the 


252        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

officers  of  this  regiment  were  put  into  the  most  com 
fortable  quarters  that  the  place  afforded,  and  were  scat 
tered  about  in  the  outlying  chateaux  that  nestled  among 
the  low,  wooded  hills  surrounding  the  town.  A  cap 
tain  and  two  lieutenants  were  sent  to  the  Chateau 
d'Autancy  (here  I  must  give  the  name),  and  on  the 
morning  before  their  arrival  a  polite  note  from  the 
colonel  of  the  regiment  announced  their  coming  to 
the  family.  This  family  was,  alas  !  very  small  now,  for 
the  father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  the  only  brother 
was  shut  up  in  Paris,  wounded.  So  Claire,  his  sister, 
and  an  elderly  maiden  aunt  who  had  lived  with  them 
since  the  death  of  the  parents  were  alone  at  the 
chateau. 

As  my  story  begins,  the  two  ladies  were  sitting  round 
a  pleasant  wood-fire  in  the  cheerless  little  salon,  which 
in  the  former  and  grander  days  had  been  used  as  an 
insignificant  morning-room,  but  now,  in  the  dwindled 
state  of  the  family,  served  as  sitting-room  and  music- 
room,  morning  and  evening  room,  all  in  one.  The 
large  envelope,  sealed  with  portentous  red  wax,  was 
brought  in  by  the  old  butler,  who  peered  at  it  with 
the  greatest  curiosity.  Claire  d'Autancy,  to  whom  it 
was  addressed,  opened  it  with  some  trepidation,  and 
then  turned  to  her  aunt,  her  cheeks  scarlet  with 
indignation. 


In   War-  Time.  253 

"Sec  what  shame  is  put  upon  us,"  she  cried,  "by 
those  dogs  of  Prussians  !  " 

"  Give  it  to  me,  my  dear,"  said  Mademoiselle  de 
Varenne  ;  and  putting  on  her  glasses  she  read  that  the 
high  and  well-born  Otto  von  Barheim,  captain  of  the 
— th  Uhlans,  and  the  high  and  well-born  lieutenants 
von  Aarburg  and  von  Sonnstein,  with  servants  and 
horses,  would  be  quartered  at  the  Chateau  d'Autancy, 
from  the  coming  morrow  until  further  orders  from  the 
General  of  Division. 

"  Well,  dear  child,  we  must  submit ;  and  I  only  hope 
that  the  manners  of  these  barbarians  will  not  be  too 
shocking.  We  must  never  see  them  if  we  can  help  it, 
—  you  especially,  Claire."  And  she  drew  herself  up  as 
stiffly  as  her  embonpoint  would  permit,  and  tried  to 
look  stern,  which  was  impossible. 

"  But,  Tante,  I  don't  see  how  we  can  avoid  meeting 
them,"  said  poor  Claire.  "  I  hate  them,  these  Prus 
sians  ;  but  we  must  eat,  and  really  Babette  cannot 
cook  as  if  for  a  hotel.  We  must  all  dine  together,  I 
suppose,  bad  as  it  will  be.  We  need  not  converse, 
you  know.  But  how  horrible,  how  humiliating  it  all 
is!" 

"  Ah,  child,  it  is  the  fortune  of  war  !  We  must  be 
polite,  but  patriotic.  It  may  happen  that  we  can  be 
of  the  greatest  service  to  our  dear  country." 


254        -A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Tante  ?  Shall  we  poison  these 
creatures?" 

"  Do  not  jest,  my  Claire.  Wait  only,  and  we  shall 
see,  —  we  shall  see.  I  will  now  give  my  mind  to  it, 
and  come  to  some  conclusion." 

Aunt  Arte"mise's  conclusions  were  generally  arrived 
at  by  the  aid  of,  and  in  company  with,  innumerable 
works  of  fiction,  the  perusal  of  which  was  her  daily  occu 
pation  and  delight.  The  elder  Dumas  furnished  her 
with  history,  romance,  and  adventure.  She  was  apt  to 
return  to  him  after  excursions  in  more  modern  and 
realistic  fields,  saying,  "Get  me  a  volume  of  my  favorite, 
Claire ;  I  get  amusement  from  him,  and  can  believe  his 
facts  or  not,  as  I  choose.  I  don't  have  to  think  too 
much  about  it,  which  is  a  comfort ;  and  I  am  not 
shocked,  which  is  a  gain." 

Her  habit  was  to  have  her  morning  cup  of  chocolate 
in  bed,  her  novel  in  hand  ;  not  to  hurry  after  that,  but 
manage  to  be  dressed  and  take  a  stroll  in  the  garden 
before  the  twelve  o'clock  dejeuner.  And,  if  the  truth 
were  told,  she  was  very  apt  to  put  on  a  loose  gown  and 
recline  on  the  broad  couch  in  her  chamber,  to  read  in 
quiet,  as  she  said  ;  and  she  would  not  usually  be  seen 
again  until  sunset  in  summer,  or  twilight  in  winter,  when 
she  would  walk  on  the  terrace  in  her  gray  satin  dinner- 
dress,  to  get  an  appetite  for  that  late  meal.  She  did 


In   War-Time.  255 

not  care  to  drive  :  why  should  she,  she  asked.  She 
knew  all  the  roads,  and  Heaven  knew  that  the  country 
was  not  amusing.  So  Claire  had  a  lonely  life  of  it, 
especially  now,  in  war-time,  when  the  chateaux  in  the 
neighborhood  were  nearly  all  shut  up  and  deserted. 

The  next  morning  there  was  a  great  clattering  in  the 
courtyard  which  enclosed  the  farm-buildings  and  sta 
bles.  There  were  many  empty  stalls,  alas  !  as  the  for 
tunes  of  the  family  were  not  as  flourishing  as  in  the  old 
time,  and  Gaston  had  taken  two  horses  with  him  to  the 
war.  Claire  had  to  make  a  bargain  between  her  patri 
otism  and  her  curiosity,  in  order  to  allow  herself  to  look 
from  a  shaded  window  to  see  what  manner  of  brutes 
these  were  that  had  come  to  take  possession.  Of  the 
three  men,  —  gentlemen,  as  she  reluctantly  confessed  to 
her  patriotism,  —  the  oldest  looked  about  thirty,  and 
brown  with  war  and  weather.  The  other  two  seemed 
quite  young,  one  a  mere  boy,  with  open  blue  eyes  and  a 
very  incipient  moustache.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
of  his  mother  and  sister  in  far-off  Germany,  and  their 
anxiety  for  this  lad.  "Well,  they  never  should  have 
come,"  her  patriotism  answered  her.  As  soon  as  the 
luggage  —  not  much  to  speak  of —  had  arrived  and  been 
put  in  the  rooms  assigned  to  the  invaders,  they  all  clat 
tered  off  again  to  headquarters,  and  Claire  and  Tante 
were  left  to  their  breakfast,  with  no  interruption.  But 


256        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

before  dinner  they  returned,  and  when  that  repast  was 
served  the  two  ladies  had  to  meet  their  conquerors. 
This  was  done  in  silence,  and  with  great  dignity  and 
ceremony,  the  ladies  making  slight  and  cold  obeisance, 
courtesying  with  averted  face,  and  the  officers  bringing 
their  heels  together  simultaneously  with  a  loud  click, 
and  bowing  at  the  same  moment,  like  figures  on  a 
hand-organ.  It  was  not  a  gay  dinner.  Old  Antoine 
looked  as  if  he  wished  that  each  morsel  might  choke 
the  Germans,  as  indeed  he  did.  There  were  a  few  con 
strained  remarks  by  Von  Barheim,  the  older  officer,  in 
grammatical  French  and  a  bad  accent,  and  as  many 
monosyllabic  replies  from  Tante  Artemise.  Claire 
scarcely  raised  her  long  lashes,  and  wished  that  she 
had  not  so  good  an  appetite  ;  but  she  could  not  really 
scorn  the  food  partaken  of  by  such  distasteful  guests, 
for  she  was  a  healthy  girl  of  nineteen,  living  a  life  in 
the  open  air,  and,  in  truth,  she  had  to  cat.  After 
dinner  more  courtesies,  more  clicking  of  heels,  and 
all  intercourse  was  over  for  that  day. 

"  Well,  dear  child,  it  was  not  so  impossibly  bad  after 
all,"  said  Tante,  as  they  sipped  their  coffee  in  the  little 
salon. 

"  I  think  it  was  bad,"  cried  Claire,  "  and  the  stiff 
ness  and  silence  were  horrible ;  I  know  that  youngest 
one  thought  so,  for  I  caught  him  giggling  to  himself, 


In   War-Time.  257 

and  the  Captain  looked  at  him  sternly,  quite  sternly ; 
but  I  am  sure  I  felt  like  laughing  myself,  just  because 
I  wanted  to  cry.  How  long  will  this  last?  " 

"  Claire,  I  have  thought  of  something  as  I  was  read 
ing  the  'Three  Guardsmen '  to-day.  We  must  intercept 
their  letters." 

"  Must  do  what,  Tante  ?  " 

Aunt  Artemise  glowed  all  over  with  satisfaction,  and 
her  silver-gray  barrel  curls  quite  trembled  as  she 
disclosed  her  plan.  What  more  natural  than  that 
Antoine  should  say  to  the  Captain  that  all  letters 
could  be  put  on  the  old  oak  chest  in  the  gallery, — 
the  chest  just  outside  the  door  of  the  apartment  given 
to  the  Prussians?  Then  at  night,  after  all  was  quiet, 
Claire  and  she  would  obtain  possession  of  their  dan 
gerous  documents,  —  for  of  course  they  would  be 
dangerous. 

"  We  must  not  leave  it  for  servants  to  do,  my  dearest ; 
they  must  all  be  able  to  be  innocent  when  questioned. 
No,  to  us  must  belong  the  glory,  but  also  the  danger. 
If,  on  reading  these  letters,  we  find  mischief,  we  will 
manage  to  send  them  to  Paris  somehow,  perhaps  by 
balloon  ;  but  at  any  rate  we  can  prevent  their  reaching 
their  destination."  And  the  worthy  lady  leaned  back 
in  her  chair,  exhausted  by  her  noble  enthusiasm. 

"  Oh,  dear  Tante,  what  a  delightful  plan !  "   said 
17 


258        A  Week  aivay  from   Time. 

Claire,    her   eyes   sparkling.       "  We   will    manage    it, 
never  fear.     Can't  \ve  begin  this  very  night?" 

So  Antoine  was  told  to  say  his  message  to  Captain 
von  Barheim,  which  he  did,  in  innocence  of  any  dark 
treason.  I  must  explain  a  bit  the  situation  of  this 
"  gallery  library  "  and  its  connection  with  the  rest  of  the 
house.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  room,  running  at  the  back 
of  the  old  state  apartments,  which  were  in  the  story 
above  the  hall,  dining-room,  and  so  forth,  and  were  never 
used  now.  It  connected  the  two  wings  of  the  chateau, 
and  was  a  sort  of  nondescript  place,  delightful  in  its 
way.  On  one  side  of  it  were  shelves  reaching  almost  to 
the  ceiling,  full  of  books,  manuscripts,  and  pamphlets, 
which  had  been  tucked  into  corners  as  the  years  went 
on.  On  the  other  side  were  windows  —  old  mtillioned 
windows  with  deep  seats  —  whence  one  could  look 
out  over  the  peaceful  country,  with  carefully  kept 
orchards  and  cultivated  fields,  with  woods  on  the  lew 
hill-tops,  and  the  spires  of  the  little  town  two  miles  or 
so  away.  One  of  the  windows  opened  on  to  a  small 
porch,  and  steps  with  a  quaint  balustrade  of  old  iron 
led  into  the  courtyard  below.  So  it  was  called  the  gal 
lery  library,  and  Claire  had  passed  many  pleasant  hours 
there,  from  the  time  when  her  little  feet  first  pattered 
and  stumbled  over  its  floor,  paved  with  small  red 
bricks. 


In   War-Time.  259 

I  will  not  give  you  an  exact  account  of  how  they  ob 
tained  possession  of  the  first  letters  left  on  the  old  oak 
chest  near  the  door  of  the  gallery  leading  into  the 
"  Prussian  apartment,"  as  it  was  now  to  be  called.  Suf 
fice  it  to  say  that  at  the  dark  time  before  dawn  the  two 
were  in  Tante  Artemise's  chamber,  eagerly  bending  over 
their  booty,  before  them  on  the  table.  There  was  only 
one  letter,  addressed  in  a  bold  handwriting  to  "  Baron 
von  Altenstein,  Frankfurt  am  Main."  "That  is  just 
our  affair,"  said  Tante  in  a  loud  stage  whisper. 

Claire  felt  strangely  averse  to  breaking  the  seal,  con 
sidering  that  it  was  an  heroic  act ;  but  conquering  her 
hesitation  she  tore  open  the  envelope.  As  she  did  it, 
she  said,  — 

"  But,  Tante,  we  can't  read  that  horrid  German  hand 
writing  ;  why  were  we  so  stupid  as  not  to  think  of  that  ? 
But  stay,  we  are  in  luck  ;  it  is  in  French  !  " 

And  in  French  it  was  ;  the  writer  beginning  his  epis 
tle  by  saying  that  as  all  officers  were  enjoined  to  learn 
and  diligently  practise  the  French  tongue,  he  found 
it  best  to  write  his  letters  in  that  language,  it  being 
pleasanter  than  any  other  kind  of  exercise.  There 
was  lamentably  little  of  political  importance,  —  nothing, 
indeed.  It  was  a  simple,  friendly  letter,  saying  that  he 
had  the  good  fortune  to  be  quartered  in  a  charming  old 
chateau.  "  For  the  sake  of  the  inmates/'  it  went  on  to 


260        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

say,  "  I  hope  our  stay  here  may  be  short.  It  cannot  be 
pleasant  for  them,  though  I  shall  do  my  best  to  make 
it  peaceful,  keeping  the  servants  to  quiet  ways  and  early 
hours,  and  the  two  youngsters  busy  with  carrying  unim 
portant  despatches  to  the  colonel  in  the  town.  How 
is  the  fair  Hildegarde  ?  Are  her  eyes  as  blue  and  as 
serious  as  ever?  By  the  way,  did  you  ever  happen  to 
see  blue  eyes  with  black  hair?  It  is  rather  an  attrac 
tive  combination ;  "  and  with  a  little  more  the  letter 
ended. 

They  looked  rather  blankly  at  each  other.  "  Better 
luck  next  time,  dear  child." 

"  Perhaps  so,  Tante ;  "  and  the  young  girl  tore  the 
paper  into  small  pieces,  and  threw  them  angrily  into 
the  fire.  "  Good-night,"  she  said,  and  went  to  her 
room. 

Claire  passed  a  feverish  and  unrefreshing  night,  and 
when  she  got  up  in  the  morning  she  felt  nervous  and 
unsatisfied.  She  wandered  out  into  the  garden  quite 
early,  and  betook  herself  to  a  little  pavilion  which  was 
at  the  end  of  a  long  straight  path  bordered  on  either 
side  with  high  box  hedges.  This  little  summer-house 
was  a  favorite  resort  of  Claire's.  It  had  no  special 
beauty  of  situation,  and  one  only  saw  from  it  the  smil 
ing  cultivated  valley,  the  long  quiet  slopes  of  which 
always  seemed  to  possess  a  certain  essence  of  after- 


In   War- Time.  261 

noon ;  but  she  liked  it,  and  I  think  it  soothed  her 
somewhat  impatient  and  untried  spirit,  —  this  mellow 
aspect  of  field  and  sky.  She  liked  to  think  that  per 
haps  far  over  the  faint  blue  line  of  the  low  hills,  away 
there  near  the  sky,  her  fate  might  be  waiting  for  her, 
and  that  if  she  might  only  reach  their  summit  and  look 
beyond,  she  would  see  a  fair  new  life  lying  there  before 
her.  As  she  sat  dreaming,  she  heard  a  foot  on  the 
gravel-path,  —  a  booted  and  spurred  foot,  —  and  she 
shrank  back  into  her  retreat.  Captain  von  Barheim 
strode  leisurely  past  her,  went  to  the  edge  of  the  ter 
raced  garden,  and  stood  looking  out  over  the  valley,  so 
that  she  could  see  his  face.  It  was  a  manly,  honest 
face,  as  she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  to  herself,  and 
a  sad  one,  as  he  gazed  out  into  the  distance,  evidently 
seeing  not  this  French  land,  but  a  far  different  country, 
over  hill  and  dale  and  river. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  thinking  of  that  Hildegarde  he  writes 
of,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  then  colored  angrily  that 
she  should  remember  that  there  was  a  Hildegarde. 
She  wished  much  to  get  away  unperceived,  and  moved 
a  little  ;  but  he  heard  her  and  turned.  She  must  have 
made  a  very  pretty  picture  as  she  sat  there  within  the 
low  doorway,  framed  in  vine-leaves  yellow  with  au 
tumn.  I  fancy  he  thought  so,  for  he  started,  and  went 
toward  her. 


262        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Good-morning,  Mademoiselle." 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said,  and  rose  to  go. 

"Stay  one  moment,  Mademoiselle,  and  let  me  say 
to  you  what  I  feel  so  deeply.  It  annoys  me  beyond 
expression  that  I  and  my  companions  should  be 
obliged  to  trouble  you  with  our  presence.  The  intru 
sion  should  not  last  another  day,  another  hour,  if  I  had 
any  power  to  put  an  end  to  it." 

"  You  cannot  dislike  to  be  here  as  much  as  I  dislike 
to  have  you  !  "  cried  poor  Claire,  forgetting  her  man 
ners.  "  But  after  all,  it  might  have  been  just  the  other 
way.  My  brother  might  have  been  in  Germany  with 
our  army,  quartered  in  one  of  your  quiet  homes ;  it 
only  happened  so  ! " 

"  Yes,  it  only  happened  so,"  he  said  quietly,  but  bit 
ing  his  long  moustache  to  hide  the  smile  that  would 
come.  "  And  if  your  brother  had  been  quartered  in 
one  of  our  quiet  homes,  I  hope  that  some  fair  Chate 
laine  would  have  shown  him  the  courtesy  which  I  have 
had  given  me  here.  It  is  exile,  after  all,  you  know, 
Mademoiselle,  and  not  all  a  gay  fanfaron  of  trumpets. 
And  we  have  our  dead  to  think  of  as  well  as  our  ab 
sent  ones,  —  comrades  who  will  not  return  with  us 
when  we  go." 

Somehow  Claire  had  not  taken  that  view  of  the 
matter,  and  it  suddenly  struck  her  that  his  people  at 


In   Wa  r-  Time.  263 

home  must  be  anxious,  that  that  Hildegarde  was  very 
anxious  perhaps,  and  she  felt  a  pang  of  remorse  and 
pity.  She  looked  at  him  with  something  of  all  this 
in  her  eyes,  so  that  he  read  the  softened  glance,  and 
said,  — 

"  Then  you  will  be  a  little  sorry  for  me,  although 
you  hate  me?  " 

"Yes  ;  "  and  making  him  a  little  gesture  of  farewell, 
she  turned  and  went  quickly  away  up  the  garden 
path. 

Much  to  Aunt  Arte"mise's  discomfiture,  Claire  re 
fused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  looking  for  letters 
that  night,  and  indeed  for  many  nights.  When  pressed, 
she  made  excuses  for  not  doing  a  patriot's  duty,  and 
all  things  went  on  quietly.  Indeed,  the  days  would 
have  seemed  rather  empty  and  dull  now,  without  the 
coming  and  going  of  horses  and  men,  and  the  little 
element  of  uncertainty  which  lent  variety  to  the  hours. 
The  meetings  at  meals  gradually  lost  a  little  of  their 
rigid  and  cold  ceremony,  and  took  on  a  more  bearable 
aspect.  Tante's  kind  heart  melted  more  than  she  at 
all  liked,  at  the  uniformly  polite  and  pleasant  bearing 
of  those  hated  conquerors ;  but  she  made  spasmodic 
efforts  to  be  stem. 

One  day  at  dejeuner  there  were  some  very  fine 
pears  on  the  table.  Tante  Artemise  looked  at  them 


264         A  Week  away  from   Time. 

and  said  to  Antoine,  "Where  did  those  pears  come 
from?  Our  trees  bear  none  so  handsome."  Antoine 
hesitated,  and  Von  Barheim  answered  for  him. 

"  I  saw  them  as  I  was  taking  a  long  ride  this  morn 
ing,  Mademoiselle,  and  ventured  to  bring  a  basketful 
back  with  me,  thinking  that  they  might  be  sweet  and 
good.  I  hope  you  will  find  them  so." 

Tante  Arte'mise  looked  very  indignant,  and  when 
Antoine  handed  the  fruit  to  her,  said,  "  Merci,  no  ! 
Our  poor  peasants  cannot  defend  their  orchards,  it 
seems  ! " 

Von  Barheim  colored  angrily,  and  cried,  "  I  can  as 
sure  you,  Mademoiselle  de  Varennes,  that  they  were 
well  paid  for  ! "  And  then  he  added  more  gently, 
"  The  poor  -  old  woman  seemed  very  glad  to  sell 
them." 

There  was  a  pause.  Artemise  looked  very  uncom 
fortable,  but  evidently  thought  it  impossible  to  apolo 
gize  to  an  enemy,  and  the  young  lieutenants  stared  at 
the  patterns  on  their  plates,  lest  their  eyes  should 
meet,  and  they  be  betrayed  into  unseemly  mirth. 
Then  Claire's  voice  was  heard,  low  but  very  dis 
tinct, — 

"  Antoine,  give  me  the  pears,  if  you  please ;  "  and 
taking  one,  she  tasted  it,  and  said  to  Von  Barheim,  "  It 
is  delicious,  Monsieur." 


In   Wa  r-  Time,  265 

He  thanked  her  with  a  smile  full  of  gratitude,  and 
harmony  was  restored. 

One  afternoon  Tante  Arte'mise  went  to  the  gallery 
library  to  get  the  third  volume  of  "  Ange  Pitou,"  when, 
looking  casually  towards  the  oak  chest  where  the  let 
ters  were  put,  she  saw  one,  which  she  incontinently 
seized  and  brought  in  triumph  away. 

When  Claire  came  upstairs  to  dress  for  dinner,  she 
called  her  into  the  little  boudoir  between  their  two 
chambers  and  begged  her  to  open  it,  as  it  was  ad 
dressed  to  Captain  von  Barheim.  Claire  looked  any 
thing  but  eager,  but  at  last  took  it  and  opened  it,  and 
after  one  glance  cried  pettishly,  "There,  Tante,  you 
see  how  useless  and  silly  all  this  is  !  It  is  in  German 
handwriting,  and  would  do  us  no  good  if  it  contained 
the  whole  plan  of  a  campaign  ! " 

"  Well,  well,  dear,  at  least  we  can  burn  it,  so  that  it 
shall  do  the  enemy  no  good ; "  and  taking  it  from 
Claire,  she  put  it  in  the  fire. 

"  Tante,"  pleaded  poor  Claire,  "  I  really  don't  see 
that  we  are  doing  our  country  any  sendee,  and  I  can 
not  but  think  that  we  are  wrong." 

"  Wrong,  you  child  without  a  patriot  soul !  "  an 
swered  Arte'mise,  ruffling  with  disdain.  "  Do  you  not 
know  that  many  of  the  greatest  acts  in  history  have 
been  accomplished  by  the  aid  of  intercepted  letters? 


266        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

Let  me  see,"  —  and  she  began  to  search  her  memory 
for  instances  in  the  pages  of  her  dear  Dumas. 

"  No  matter,"  interrupted  Claire,  a  little  frightened 
at  the  thought  of  the  mass  of  evidence  about  to  be 
brought  against  her ;  "  perhaps  it  is  all  right,  but  I 
don't  like  to  do  it." 

"  The  highest  duties  are  sometimes  the  most  pain 
ful/'  asserted  Tante,  still  in  her  severest  tone  ;  "  and  this 
very  night  I  wish  you  to  join  me  in  trying  to  find  this 
dangerous  correspondence  which  is  going  on  under 
our  very  roof,  —  for  of  course  it  must  be  going  on,  — 
and  I  shall  consider  you  as  wanting  in  all  the  spirit  of 
your  ancestors  if  you  fail  me  now  !  " 

"  Not  to-night,  dear  Tante,  but  to-morrow  night," 
said  Claire,  feeling  a  very  traitor  to  the  spirit  of  her 
ancestors  ;  and  there  the  matter  rested. 

At  dinner  she  scarcely  dared  to  look  at  poor  Von 
Barheim,  feeling  quite  bewildered  and  unhappy.  He, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  more  than  usually  agreeable, 
making  his  best  effort  to  talk  of  things  with  no  bearing 
on  wars  or  rumors  of  wars.  When  she  went  to  her 
chamber,  she  sat  for  a  long  time  brushing  her  hair  and 
dreamily  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  At  last  she 
leaned  her  chin  upon  her  two  hands  and  examined 
with  some  interest  the  color  of  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  they 
certainly  are  quite,  quite  blue,  and  my  hair  is  black. 


In   Wa  r-  Time.  267 

So  that  is  an  attractive  combination,  is  it?  "  Then  she 
was  angry,  and  said  "  Nonsense  ! "  to  herself  in  the 
glass,  and  went  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  Claire  went  off  for  a  long  walk, 
and  was  on  her  way  back,  thinking  that  she  might  be 
a  little  late  for  the  dejeuner,  when  in  a  hedged  lane 
outside  of  her  own  domain  she  met  a  rough-looking 
fellow  in  a  tattered  blouse,  who  stopped,  as  if  to  let  her 
pass ;  she  looked  up,  supposing  him  to  be  some  one 
of  the  peasants  who  knew  her,  and  had  her  customary 
pleasant  greeting  on  her  lips,  when  she  saw  that,  he 
was  a  stranger.  He  said  he  was  hungry  and  wanted 
some  money  to  buy  a  dinner. 

"  I  have  no  money,  my  good  man,  but  come  to  the 
chateau  and  they  shall  give  you  a  good  bowl  of  soup," 
she  answered,  not  frightened ;  for  although  he  had  an 
insolent  manner,  yet  he  was  a  Frenchman,  and  proba 
bly  lived  not  very  far  from  her  neighborhood. 

"  None  of  your  soup  for  me,  my  pretty  demoiselle  ; 
I  want  something  stronger.  Here,  give  me  those  ear 
rings  out  of  your  dainty  ears,  and  I  will  go  ;  but  if  not, 
I  shall  take  them,  and  a  kiss  into  the  bargain,"  and  he 
laughed  coarsely. 

Claire  was  thoroughly  alarmed  now,  but  she  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  giving  up  her  little  pearl  ear 
rings,  which  had  been  her  mother's ;  she  looked  up 


268        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

and  do\vn  the  lane,  but  all  was  empty  and  silent,  and 
she  was  just  taking  the  trinkets  from  her  ears  with 
trembling  fingers,  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  hoofs,  and  turning  again  saw  through  the  vista 
made  by  the  overarching  branches  of  the  high  thorn- 
bushes  a  horseman  coming  quickly.  She  waved  her 
hand  and  ran  a  few  steps  toward  him,  and  before  she 
was  quite  conscious  of  what  happened,  the  peasant  had 
disappeared  through  a  hole  in  the  hedge,  and  Von  Bar- 
heim  was  at  her  side,  and  off  his  horse  in  a  moment. 

"What  is  it?  Are  you  hurt?"  and  he  looked  pale 
and  agitated. 

"  No,  no,  but  the  fellow  was  very  rude,  and  if  you 
had  not  come,  I  should  have  had  to  give  up  my 
earrings ; "  and  she  held  out  one  in  her  hand  as  she 
spoke. 

"Where  did  he  go?"  And  he  was  on  his  horse 
again. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't !  There  may  be  more  of  them  !  " 
and  she  trembled  and  looked  so  frightened  that  he 
dismounted  and  gave  up  all  idea  of  chasing  the  crimi 
nal.  They  walked  slowly  side  by  side,  his  well-trained 
horse  following  just  behind. 

"  You  should  never  walk  alone  outside  of  your  own 
grounds,"  he  said  quite  sternly.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  it  cannot  be  safe  in  a  time  like  this?" 


In   War-Time.  269 


'•  But  I  have  always  done  it,  and  forgot  that  it  would 
be  different  now.  All  the  people  in  the  country  round 
know  me,  and  are  respectful  and  kind." 

"This,  then,  was  one  of  our  camp  stragglers?  It 
shall  be  looked  into,  and  I  think  we  shall  catch  the 
fellow  before  night." 

"No,  no  !  Indeed  —  in  fact —  It  was  not  a  Ger 
man,"  she  stammered  at  last,  with  such  a  pitiful  glance 
at  having  to  make  the  confession,  that  he  laughed ; 
and  then  she  laughed,  and  they  strolled  amicably  back 
to  the  chateau,  talking  of  other  things.  When  they 
reached  the  little  gate  that  opened  into  the  park,  he 
said,  — 

"  Now  promise  me,  Mademoiselle,  that  you  will  not 
walk  beyond  your  own  limits,  unless,  indeed,  you  allow 
me  to  accompany  you,"  he  added  smiling. 

"  But  that  could  not  be,  you  know,"  answered  Claire 
seriously ;  and  he  was  silent.  They  separated  on  the 
terrace.  She  held  out  her  hand  quietly,  and  said, 
"Thank  you,"  and  he  bowed  his  head  gravely  over 
it,  saying,— 

"  It  was  nothing,  Mademoiselle." 

I  need  not  say  how  mean  and  guilty  Claire  felt, 
when  Tante  reminded  her  that  evening  that  she  had 
promised  to  go  letter-hunting  in  the  night.  But  there 
was  nothing  left  to  her  but  to  keep  her  word,  and 


2  70       A   Week  away  from   Time. 

indeed  she  feared  that  if  she  refused  again,  Arte'mise 
would  begin  to  suspect  something  of  the  strange  tumult 
in  her  young  heart  and  brain.  She  sat  by  the  smoul 
dering  embers  of  the  fire  in  her  chamber,  in  her  long 
white  loose  gown,  until  after  midnight,  when  she 
went  and  knocked  at  Tante's  door  and  said  she  was 
ready. 

"How  white  you  look ! "  said  that  worthy  conspirator. 

It  certainly  could  not  be  said  of  her,  for  she  was 
clad  in  a  strange  garment  of  crimson  woollen  stuff, 
falling  full  from  a  yoke,  which  made  her  look  like  a 
very  old  baby,  that  resemblance  being  heightened  by 
a  very  be-ruffled  lace  cap,  with  lappets.  They  pro 
ceeded  with  great  caution  to  the  door  which  opened 
from  their  part  of  the  house  into  the  gallery  library, 
and  went  in.  A  lantern  on  a  post  in  the  courtyard 
was  always  kept  lighted  at  night,  and  shone  dimly 
through  the  deep  windows,  making  it  quite  possible 
to  find  one's  way,  and  even  to  discern  objects.  As 
they  walked  on  tiptoe  toward  the  farther  end  of  the 
long  room  Arte'mise  whispered  anxiously, — 

"  Child  of  my  soul,  thou  hast  on  thy  mules,  and  they 
click  loudly  on  the  pavement ;  take  them  off,  or  thou 
losest  us  ! " 

Claire  stooped,  took  off  the  offending  slippers,  and 
holding  them  in  one  hand  went  swiftly  on  to  the  oak 


In    War-Time.  271 


chest ;  there  she  saw  a  white  envelope,  clutched  it,  and 
turned  to  go  back.  Tante  trotted  nimbly  on  before 
her,  and  they  had  already  accomplished  three  quarters 
of  their  way,  when  an  ominous  noise  was  heard,  —  a 
sound  from  the  other  side  of  the  Prussian  door ;  the 
handle  grated  as  it  was  turned.  Their  retreat  now 
became  a  rout.  Tante,  though  stout,  could  be  quite 
agile  when  occasion  demanded,  and  being  considera 
bly  in  advance  of  Claire,  reached  their  door  in  safety. 
Claire  made  desperate  haste,  and  when  she  neared 
the  threshold,  gave  a  leap  into  the  passage  beyond, 
dropping  one  shoe  in  her  effort,  but  holding  fast  the 
letter. 

Von  Barheim  had  sat  in  his  room  rather  later  than 
usual,  first  writing,  and  then  by  the  fire,  musing  on 
many  things.  He  was  roused  from  his  thoughts  by  a 
slight  sound  in  the  gallery,  which  was  only  separated 
from  his  chamber  by  a  small  anteroom,  the  door  of 
which  was  open.  Yes,  there  was  certainly  something 
or  somebody  moving  out  there  with  a  little  click-clack 
on  the  brick  floor.  Then  it  stopped,  and  he  thought 
it  must  have  been  a  mouse,  when  again,  nearer  the 
door,  he  distinguished  a  soft  rustle  and  motion.  He 
remembered  the  window  opening  to  the  courtyard,  and 
bethinking  himself  that  the  country  was  infested  by 
tramps,  as  always  in  war-time,  he  went  quietly  to  the 


272        A  }}7cck  away  from   Time. 

table  where  he  had  laid  his  sword,  and  then  crossed 
the  anteroom  and  opened  the  door.  What  did  he 
see  ?  No  tramp  with  burglarious  intent,  but  at  the  end 
of  the  gallery  a  white  and  youthful  figure,  the  light  full 
upon  it  from  the  window  near,  rushing  out  at  the  door, 
with  great  floating  of  garments.  He  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  undecided,  then  going  back  for  a  candle,  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  long  room.  What  was  that  on  the 
floor?  He  picked  it  up,  and  turned  it  round  and 
round  in  his  hand  as  if  it  were  some  curious  toy.  It 
was  a  very  small  blue  silk  mule,  a  perfectly  French 
shoe,  with  a  high  heel,  but  cut  away  from  the  sides 
and  back  of  the  foot ;  in  fact,  like  the  watch-pockets 
sold  at  fairs  to  hang  up  at  the  side  of  one's  bed.  Silly 
shoes,  perhaps,  with  only  a  toe  and  a  sole  and  a  heel, 
but  very  pretty  and  comfortable  withal  to  slip  one's 
feet  into ;  not  meant,  however,  for  such  warlike  advance 
and  retreat  as  the  present.  He  went  slowly  back  to  his 
room,  still  looking  at  the  shoe  with  a  curiously  pleased 
and  tender  light  in  his  honest  eyes.  As  he  passed  the 
oak  chest  on  which  he  had  put  a  letter  not  an  hour 
before,  he  saw  that  there  was  no  letter  there.  Had  it 
fallen  to  the  floor?  A  careful  search  convinced  him 
that  such  was  not  the  case.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
shoe  again,  and  it  suddenly  flashed  into  his  somewhat 
slow  Teutonic  brain  that  they  belonged  to  each  other, 


In   War-  Time.  273 


had  some  connection, — this  small  slipper  and  his  letter. 
He  went  into  his  room,  sat  down  again  by  his  fire,  and 
fell  to  thinking  anew,  still  holding  the  slipper  in  his 
hand. 

Meantime  the  two  ladies  had  reached  their  apart 
ment,  and  going  into  Tante  Arte' raise's  chamber,  sank 
exhausted,  —  Claire  on  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  and 
Tante  at  full  length  on  her  couch,  panting,  and  as  red 
as  her  gown. 

"  My  treasure,  we  are  safe  !  "  she  gasped.  "  What 
an  escape,  what  a  coup  de  theatre  !  Where  is  the  letter 
for  which  we  have  risked  so  much?  I  hope  it  will 
repay  our  devotion  to  our  dear  country  ! " 

Claire  did  not  seem  to  think  that  it  would,  as  she 
held  up  one  foot  in  a  pink  silk  stocking  to  the  fire, 
rather  piteously. 

"  I  have  lost  one  of  my  mules"  she  said.  "  I  think 
I  must  have  dropped  it  in  the  gallery." 

"  Ah,  well,  child,  that  is  nothing,  Marrette  can  find 
it  for  you  in  the  morning.  Now  for  the  letter  ! " 

Claire  opened  the  envelope,  which  was  addressed  to 
the  same  Von  Altenstein  as  the  former  one.  She  did 
it  with  the  greatest  inward  repugnance,  and,  indeed, 
read  with  so  much  hesitation  that  Tante  reproached 
her  more  than  once  for  her  want  of  spirit.  It  was 

written   in   the   most   intimate  tone,  saying  that   the 
18 


274        -A  Week  away  from   Time. 

writer  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  anxious  at  the  non- 
arrival  of  any  word  from  his  friend. 

"We  burned  that  one,  I  suppose,  my  dear,"  inter 
rupted  Tante  Arte"mise. 

"  We  are  in  daily  and  hourly  expectation  of  orders 
to  move,"  it  went  on. 

"  Ah,  Claire,  now  at  last  we  shall  find  something  of 
importance  ;  "  and  she  sat  upright  on  her  couch,  stiff 
with  interest.  "  We  shall  unmask  the  enemy's  move 
ments.  We  shall  be  of  the  greatest  service,  and  we 
shall  win  renown." 

"Wait,  Tante,"  said  Claire  languidly.  "I  do  not 
think  with  you." 

And  indeed  that  was  all  of  the  matter  that  was 
hinted  at.  Von  Barheim  wrote  in  rather  a  sad  mood, 
saying  that  he  felt  restless  and  unsatisfied  :  — 

"  Ah,  my  Carl,  how  terrible  a  thing  is  war !  How  the 
nations  sit  and  watch  each  other,  greedy  to  snatch  a  bit 
of  territory,  and  jealous  to  defend  some  fancied  right ! 
This  horrible  feeling  of  national  hatred  may  so  often  have 
broken  apart  two  lives  which  might  have  grown  together 
and  been  happy.  I  fear  I  am  losing  something  of  my 
manly  impulse,  for  I  find  myself  wondering  in  this  peace 
ful  chateau —  peaceful  except  that  I  disturb  its  quiet  — 
whether  this  national  glory  of  Vaterland  be  worth  all  the 
suffering  it  brings,  and  whether  a  nation  could  not  be 
more  glorious  by  peace  than  by  war  !  But  you  will  laugh 


In   War-Time.  275 


at  me,  my  Carl,  and  perhaps  you  would  be  right ;  still,  it 
relieves  me  of  my  dull  mood  to  put  a  little  of  its  weight 
upon  your  heart.  Good-by,  trusty  friend  and  comrade. 
God  grant  that  we  meet  before  long  ! 

"  MAX  VON  BARHEIM." 

As  Claire  read  on  to  the  end,  she  forgot  Tante,  she 
forgot  all  but  the  words  before  her.  She  read  slowly 
and  thoughtfully,  more  as  if  she  were  listening  than 
speaking.  When  she  finished,  she  looked  up  with  a 
start,  as  if  coming  back  to  the  situation.  Then  she 
cried,  — 

"  Tante,  this  is  the  last  time  I  will  do  this  thing  ! 
I  hate  it !  Remember,  I  will  never  do  it  again  !  "  and 
the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"  Softly,  softly,  child ;  we  will  see.  To  be  sure,  I 
am  rather  disappointed  not  to  have  found  anything  of 
consequence.  I  did  not  quite  understand  all  that 
about  peace  and  war ;  it  seemed  a  strange  letter  for 
a  Prussian." 

Claire  made  no  answer,  but  put  the  letter  quietly, 
almost  reverently,  into  the  fire,  and  watched  it  smoke, 
and  burst  into  flame  for  a  moment,  and  then  settle 
into  a  little  gray,  quivering  ghost  of  itself,  until  it  floated 
up  the  chimney  as  if  to  seek  its  own  way  to  its  far-off 
destination.  Then  she  went  to  her  own  room  without 
a  word  and  shut  the  door. 


276        A   Week  away  from   Time. 


The  next  morning  she  did  not  go  out  as  usual,  but 
sat  by  her  window  until  she  saw  a  figure  she  had 
learned  to  know  very  well  come  from  the  other  end  of 
the  house  and  go  down  the  garden  walk.  Somehow 
it  had  become  quite  a  usual  accident  that  she  should 
meet  him  and  talk  a  little  by  the  summer-house.  Now 
she  moved  from  the  window,  went  quickly  downstairs 
and  out  through  the  garden,  until  she  found  him.  He 
was  standing,  as  was  his  wont,  looking  out  over  the 
fields.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  hear  her  step  and 
turn,  she  came  so  swiftly. 

"Captain  von  Barheim,"  she  began.  He  was  so 
happy  that  she  should  openly  seek  him,  that  at  first  he 
noticed  nothing ;  but  in  a  moment  he  saw  how  white 
she  was,  how  the  dark  shadows  lay  under  her  sweet, 
tired  eyes. 

"Mademoiselle,  what  is  it?  What  has  troubled 
you?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?  " 

"  You  can  do  nothing  but  listen  to  me  for  a  little," 
she  answered  ;  and  folding  her  hands  quite  tightly,  as 
if  afraid  to  lose  hold  of  herself,  she  looked  at  him  and 
went  on  :  "I  wish  to  tell  you  that  under  the  mistaken 
idea  that  I  was  aiding  my  poor  country,  I  have  done  you 
a  grievous  wrong.  I  have  taken  your  letters ;  I  have 
destroyed  them  ;  I  have  read  them."  Here  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  face,  and  left  it  again  whiter  than  ever. 


In   War-  Time.  277 

"  I  wish  you  to  know  it,  Captain  von  Barheim,  and  I 
wish  to  beg  your  pardon."  And  she  bowed  her  head 
like  a  culprit. 

"Ah,  you  brave  and  generous  girl !  "  he  cried,  look 
ing  down  at  the  pretty  crisp  hair,  and  the  white  eyelids 
that  hid  her  eyes  from  his  gaze  ;  and  taking  her  hand, 
he  kissed  it  with  tender  respect.  She  drew  it  away, 
but  without  anger  ;  she  only  said,  — 

"  I  am  neither  generous  nor  brave.  It  was  a  mean 
and  cowardly  act ; "  and  again  she  looked  at  him,  all 
her  impetuous  spirit  in  her  violet  eyes. 

"But  how  many  far  worse  deeds  are  done  in  the 
name  of  patriotism  !  "  said  he.  "  And  now  you  must 
listen  to  me,  for  I  also  have  a  confession  to  make. 
Last  night  I  found  a  shoe,  —  a  very  small  and  pretty 
shoe.  I  thought  it  fair  contraband  of  war,  and  meant 
to  say  nothing  of  it,  but  keep  it.  Now,  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  that  I  may  have  it.  No,  do  not  refuse  until 
you  hear  me !  "  he  went  on  quickly,  for  she  shook  her 
head.  "  This  morning  we  have  orders  to  march,  and 
in  an  hour  I  shall  be  gone  from  this  place,  where  I 
could  have  been,  where  I  have  been,  so  happy,  —  happy 
in  seeing  you  every  day.  You  will  let  me  take  the 
little  shoe  with  me ;  and  some  day  perhaps,  some  day 
when  there  is  peace  between  our  people,  when  the 
bitterness  has  passed  away,  may  I  not  come  again  to 


278        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

you  ?  "  and  the  big  fellow's  voice  failed  him,  and  he 
was  silent. 

"  Alas !  "  she  cried,  raising  her  streaming  eyes  and 
clasping  her  hands,  "  that  day  will  never  come  !  " 

He  spoke  no  word,  but  took  her  hand  again  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Yes,  you  may  keep  it,"  she  said. 

He  touched  the  top  of  her  head  with  his  lips,  and 
released  her,  and  she  went  away  weeping.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  follow  her,  but  only  stood  and  gazed 
until  she  was  gone  into  the  house. 

She  went  to  the  window  where  she  had  watched  them 
come,  —  these  hated  enemies.  She  hid  herself  no  more, 
but  sat  there,  very  pale,  watching  the  preparations  for 
departure.  At  last  he  and  the  two  young  men  mounted 
their  horses  in  the  courtyard  and  rode  slowly  out 
through  the  gate.  She  bowed  courteously  to  the  young 
lieutenants.  Von  Barheim  came  last,  and  never  took 
his  eyes  from  her  face  as  he  went.  When  he  turned 
the  corner  of  the  road  which  would  hide  him  from  her 
view,  he  stretched  out  one  hand  toward  her,  and  she 
answered  with  hers.  Then  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
grew  faint  in  the  distance,  and  all  was  silent.  The 
old  life  had  come  back,  but  never  to  be  the  same 
again. 

Claire  went  to  the  garden  terrace  and  sat  down  on 


In   War-Time.  279 

the  low  wall,  looking  out  to  those  distant  blue  hills.  Did 
their  mystery  hold  any  boon  for  her  ? 

At  dejeuner,  Tante  Artemise  said,  — 

"  Well,  child  of  my  heart,  they  have  gone,  as  you 
know.  They  really  made  but  little  trouble,  and  the 
Captain  left  the  politest  of  notes  for  me,  thanking 
me  in  all  their  names  for  the  courtesy  shown  to  them 
here.  Really,  it  is  almost  a  pity  that  young  man  is  a 
Prussian  !  " 

And  Claire  said  nothing. 


"  Do  you  suppose  they  ever  met  again?  "  said 
Muriel,  a  little  wistfully. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  ever  did,"  said  Bell. 

"Why  not, — with  the  world  so  small,  and  the 
war  over  ?  " 

"  Because,  as  a  rule,  people  dorit  meet  again. 
The  world  may  be  small,  but  it  is  wide  enough 
for  episodes  and  unfinished  romances.  Now, 
I  should  n't  at  all  wonder  if  the  French  girl's 
brother  came  back  after  the  siege  of  Paris  and 
brought  some  brother  officer  with  him,  of  a 
neighboring  family,  perhaps  a  good  '  parti,'  and 
all  that.  Then  naturally  a  match  would  have 


280       A  Week  away  from   Time. 

been  arranged  in  French  fashion,  and  there ! 
The  matter  is  finished  !  " 

"  But  for  all  that  they  may  have  met  again," 
ventured  Ralph. 

"  Yes,  they  may  have,"  said  Bell,  "  but  let  us 
hope,  in  that  case,  that  they  did  not.  Don't 
make  a  tragedy  out  of  the  little  interlude  !  " 

"  As  we  can  all  have  our  conjectures,"  per 
sisted  Muriel,  "  I  shall  cling  to  mine.  And  I 
think,  as  a  rule,  that  people  do  meet  again !  " 


Say,  what  abridgement  have  you  for  this  evening  ? 
What  mask  ?  what  music  ?  How  shall  we  beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

/  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

.  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


EVENING   OF  FIFTH   DAY. 

"IT'S  an  off-night  to-night,  is  it  not?"  said 
Ralph, —  "  a '  relache.'  I  wonder  if  the  rest  of  you 
who  have  '  spoken  your  pieces '  feel  as  relieved 
as  I  do !  Just  as  I  used  to  feel  at  school,  on 
Exhibition  days,  when  the  fathers  and  mothers 
all  came,  and  we  had  to  get  up  one  by  one  and 
recite  something,  or  be  examined  in  history  or 
spelling.  When  my  turn  had  come  and  gone, 
and  I  was  not  positively  disgraced  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  and  it  was  the  next  boy's  turn,  — 
oh,  how  good  the  apple  tasted  which  I  bit 
surreptitiously  under  cover  of  my  desk !  I 
believe  you  are  the  next  boy,  Margaret,  aren't 
you,  for  to-morrow  evening?  But  how  comes 
it  that  you  two  are  let  off  so  easily,  Mrs. 
Chauncey  and  Mr.  Professor?" 

"I  am  not  so  sure  the  Professor  is  let  off," 
said  Margaret.  "  I  dare  say  he  will  have  a 
Sunday  story  to  tell  us.  We  shall  see." 


284        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"As  for  me,"  said  Mrs.  Chauncey,  "you 
know  I  never  meant  especially  to  be  here  at 
all,  so  of  course  I  brought  no  story.  I  have 
had  a  hundred  dancing  in  my  head  in  these 
last  days,  but  none  has  written  itself  down.  Be 
sides,  there  are  not  enough  days  in  the  week." 

"  Alas  !  "  and  "Alas  !  "  was  echoed  round  the 
room. 

"  For  myself,"  said  Charlie  Wyatt,  "  I  have 
not  the  least  idea  what  day  it  is,  nor  what  any 
of  the  days  have  been,  —  except  that  they  have 
been  happy  and  golden,  and  that  they  will  never 
be  again ! " 

"  What  are  we  who  have  passed  our  examina 
tions  supposed  to  have  instead  of  the  surrepti 
tious  apple?"  asked  Bowdoin.  "What  are  our 
prizes?  " 

"  Suppose  we  give  ourselves  up  to  unlimited 
music  to-night,"  suggested  Ralph.  "  I  can 
think  of  no  better  reward  of  merit.  And,  Mar 
garet,  your  hoarseness  seems  to  have  quite 
disappeared ;  suppose  you  begin !  Play  to  us 
first,  and  make  us  happy,  and  then  you  can  sing 
and  make  us  wretched  if  you  choose." 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        285 

Margaret  went  to  the  piano  and  played  for 
half  an  hour,  —  Chopin,  Schumann,  Rubinstein. 
Her  voice  was  a  rich  contralto,  made  of  music 
in  every  tone,  and  she  sang  with  a  fine  dramatic 
spirit.  After  a  moment  of  searching  in  her 
memory  she  sang:  — 


"  Oh,  think  not  to  win  her, 

Luckless  besieger ! 
High  on  her  battlements 
Sitteth  she  ever. 


"  Dead  in  the  moat  beneath 

Lie  all  thine  arrows; 
They  scarcely  have  frightened 
The  two  small  sparrows 

"  That  build  'neath  the  window, 

Whence  listless,  secure, 
She  watcheth  thine  essay 
Hour  by  hour. 

"  But  know  that  another 
Will  come  from  afar, 
At  the  blast  of  whose  trumpet 
Her  castle's  strong  bar 


286        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  Shall  fly  from  its  socket, 

And  drawbridge  clang  down, 
As  quick  from  her  turret 
She  hastens  alone 

"  To  hold  but  his  stirrup, 

To  kiss  but  his  sword, 
To  call  him  her  master, 
Her  lover,  her  lord." 


"Where  did  you  get  those  words,  Margaret? 
I  never  heard  them  before,"  said  her  sister. 

"  They  were  written  by  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
I  set  them  to  such  music  as  you  have  heard." 
She  ran  over  the  keys  for  a  little  while,  and 
sang  again :  — 


"  It  was  on  this  coast  the  ship  went  down, 

Here  in  the  sight  of  land, 
God's  sky  above,  and  the  angels  there 
Stretched  never  a  helping  hand. 

"  It  was  on  this  beacon  rock  she  struck, 

When  the  long  rough  voyage  was  past  ; 
The  harbor  light  burned  clear  and  bright, 
And  home  was  reached  at  last. 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        287 

"In  the  deep  blue  sea  of  thy  tempting  eyes, 

Close  to  thy  heart  of  stone, 
A  soul  was  lost  from  Paradise, 
And  a  freighted  life  went  down." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  sing  anything  sad  to 
night,"  said  Margaret,  "  but  I  am  afraid  none  of 
my  songs  are  very  gay.  I  see  you  have  brought 
some  music  from  the  yacht,  Mr.  Wyatt.  Do 
sing  this  one,  won't  you?  "  She  held  out  a  song 
in  manuscript  to  Wyatt,  who  took  the  seat  she 
had  left,  and  sang :  — 

"  The  long  gray  island  fades  into  the  night, 

The  misty  sails  glide  out  beyond  the  bar; 
Trustful  and  grateful  to  the  constant  light 

Flashed  from  the  lighthouse  tower  so  high  and  far 

"  I,  on  the  verge  of  this  far  vaster  sea, 

Put  out  alone  beneath  these  starless  skies, 
But  turning,  kneel  and  bless  you  ;  changeless  still 
The  light  that  never  dims  within  your  constant  eyes." 

As  Wyatt  finished,  Erin,  who  had  been  lying 
quietly  on  the  rug  by  the  fire,  suddenly  began 
to  howl  so  long  and  mournfully  that  he  was 
very  depressing,  and  it  required  a  good  deal  of 


288        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

soothing  on  his  mistress's  part  before  he  could 
be  restored  to  his  usual  cheerfulness. 

"  And  quite  right  he  is,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Bowdoin,  who  had  been  out  of  the  room  for 
some  time.  "  I  never  could  understand  why  a 
pleasant  evening  should  be  turned  into  a  vale 
of  tears.  I  knew  how  it  would  be  when  Mar 
garet  began  to  sing,  although  at  first  she  drew 
it  mild.  So  while  you  have  been  amusing  your 
selves  with  being  miserable,  I  have  been  pre 
paring  for  you  a  salad,  the  like  of  which  you 
never  imagined.  Come  into  the  dining-room 
and  cheer  up  !  " 


Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs,  she  will  not  hear, 
Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear ; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing  time  is  over, 
And  over  all  old  things,  and  all  things  dear; 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her, 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear, 
She  would  not  hear. 

Let  us  rise  up  and  part ;  she  will  not  know ; 

Let  us  go  sea-ward  as  the  great  winds  go, 

Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam  ;  what  help  is  here  ? 

There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so, 

And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear, 

And  how  these  things  are,  though  we  strove  to  show, 

She  would  not  know. 

SWINBURNE. 

"  Et  in  Arcadia  Ego" 


SIXTH   DAY. 

"  IT  is  indeed  a  house  divided  against  itself, 
to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  as  they  were  assem 
bled  around  the  breakfast-table.  "  Let  me  see  if 
I  have  understood  the  programme.  You  have 
petitioned  for  the  hammock  and  your  book, 
Bell,  and  Mrs.  Chauncey  is  coming  over  to  help 
you  to  be  idle ;  Tom  is  determined  to  leave  no 
bluefish  uncaught  in  the  bay;  four  of  us  are 
to  ride  to  the  Barnstable  Great  Marshes ;  and 
Mr.  Wyatt — what  shall  I  say  of  him  and  his 
defection?  I  could  not  have  believed  it  of 
you,"  she  said,  turning  to  him. 

Antinous  looked  sore  distressed.  "  Indeed, 
indeed,"  he  stammered,  "  I  never  would  have 
done  so  stupid  a  thing.  I  would  get  off  now  if 
I  could.  But  I  promised  to  sail  in  this  regatta 
long  ago,  before  I  knew,  before  I  —  and  my 
yacht  is  entered,  and  we  must  go  in,  unless  I 
maim  her  or  myself  somehow,  which  I  have  a 


292        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

great  mind  to  do.  There  never  was  such  hard 
luck." 

"  Where  is  the  regatta?  "  asked  Muriel. 

"  The  start  is  somewhere  just  outside  of  Mat- 
tapoisett  Bay;  I  don't  quite  know  the  limits  of 
the  race.  I  have  n't  taken  much  interest  in  it 
lately.  My  skipper  knows  all  about  it.  He 
thinks  the  'Hope'  is  sure  to  win." 

Muriel  was  standing  in  the  porch,  and  the 
two  walked  slowly  down  the  garden  path. 

"  Perhaps  she  will  win  if  you  will  wear  her 
colors,"  he  said,  and  stooped  to  pick  a  blue 
corn-flower,  which  the  girl  put  in  her  white 
dress. 

"  I  hope  you  will  win  the  race,  with  all  my 
heart,"  she  said  simply. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  said  Wyatt.  "  Will  you  let 
me  see  you  alone  this  afternoon,  Miss  Carr- 
Wynstede?  Before  the  sun  goes  down,  not  only 
the  fate  of  the  '  Hope '  must  be  settled,  but  my 
own."  And  ere  she  could  speak,  he  was  gone. 

It  was  a  very  long  ride  to  those  wonderful 
Great  Marshes  and  back,  and  Mrs.  Temple  was 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        293 

surprised  when  Muriel  told  her,  on  their  return, 
that  she  had  promised  Mr.  Wyatt  to  walk  to 
the  headlands  with  him  to  see  the  sunset.  Mar 
garet  was  going  to  remonstrate;  but  the  girl 
took  her  hands  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead, 
and  said,  — 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Temple,  I  have  promised.  Will 
you  trust  me  that  I  am  meaning  to  do  right, 
and  let  me  go?  " 

"  My  child,  I  trust  you  wholly ;  go,"  Mar 
garet  said. 

There  is  a  picture  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  of 
a  smiling  landscape,  and  in  the  background  a 
tomb,  with  the  inscription, 

Ex  IN  ARCADIA  EGO. 

Death  even  in  Arcadia !  And  sorrow  there, 
and  disappointed  hopes,  and  broken  hearts. 
For  Pan  is  dead,  and  the  happy,  careless  Fauns 
and  Dryads  are  gone,  and  mortals  have  dared 
to  enter  in,  taking  their  burdens  with  them, 
which  even  there  cannot  be  laid  down,  —  even 
in  Arcadia ! 


"  I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear." 

.  .  .  for  they,  at  least, 

Have  dreamed  that  human  hearts  might  blend 
In  one,  and  were  through  faith  released 

From  isolation. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole, 
As  when  he  loved  her  here  in  Time, 
And  at  tJie  spiritual  prime, 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

TENNYSON,  In  Memoriam. 

Oh  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this  : 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss. 

IBID. 


EVENING   OF   SIXTH   DAY. 

"  MURIEL  tells  me  that  we  shall  not  see  Mr. 
Wyatt  again,"  said  Margaret  that  evening. 
"  He  was  obliged  to  leave  very  suddenly,  and 
had  to  catch  a  favorable  wind.  He  sent  many 
farewell  messages,  and  wanted  us  to  know  that 
the  '  Hope  '  had  lost  the  race." 

There  were  all  sorts  of  exclamations  of  regret 
and  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Temple  trusted  devoutly 
that  Muriel's  pale  face  and  trembling  fingers 
passed  unnoticed,  as  she  sat  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room,  her  head  bent  over  her  embroi 
dery.  To  prevent  troubling  questions,  Margaret 
said,  "  And  now,  if  you  are  ready,  I  will  tell  you 
my  story.  I  shall  call  it 

THE   VOICE. 

MOST  of  you  knew  Eleanor  Gray,  so  I  need  not  ask 
if  you  remember  her.  She  was  a  creature  not  to  be 
forgotten.  And  you  know  too  that  she  was  my  most 


296        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

dear  and  intimate  friend ;  yet  it  was  but  a  short  time 
before  her  death  that  she  told  me  the  secret  of  her 
life.  There  was  always  about  her,  even  to  me,  and  in 
spite  of  our  real  intimacy,  a  vague  sense  of  some 
thing  mysterious ;  of  unsounded  depths,  of  a  life  lived 
apart,  into  which  I  did  not  enter,  to  which  I  held 
no  key.  One  day,  here  at  Fair  Harbor,  sitting  with 
me  on  the  very  headland  from  which  Muriel  saw  the 
sun  go  down  this  afternoon,  she  told  me  her  story. 
While  she  lived,  it  was  sacred ;  but  I  can  tell  it  now 
without  disloyalty,  and  I  will.  I  do  not  ask  for  your 
belief  or  disbelief.  I  can  give  it  to  you  very  nearly 
in  her  own  words,  for  I  wrote  it  down  almost  imme 
diately  after  hearing  it  from  her  lips,  I  was  so  anxious 
to  remember  it  exactly ;  and  I  read  it  over  last  night 
to  refresh  my  memory. 

It  will  explain  much  that  seemed  singular  in  Elea 
nor's  character  and  life ;  and  if  you  wonder  at  the 
facts  I  shall  relate,  at  least  you  will  acknowledge  their 
consistency  with  what  you  knew  of  her.  When  I 
went  to  Europe  years  ago,  I  left  Eleanor  Gray  a  lovely 
young  girl ;  she  was  several  years  younger  than  I, 
you  know.  I  came  home,  to  find  her  a  beautiful 
woman.  I  had  always  been  very  fond  of  her,  but  now 
she  attracted  me  wonderfully,  and  drew  me  to  her  with 
a  different  and  compelling  charm,  —  not  alone  on 


The  Voice.  297 

account  of  her  great  beauty,  her  grace,  her  exquisite 
sweetness  and  womanliness,  but  from  something,  I 
could  not  tell  what,  which  put  her  quite  apart  from 
other  women,  and  inspired  in  me  a  sort  of  reverent 
feeling.  Tennyson's  "  In  Memoriam  "  was  constantly 
in  my  mind  when  I  looked  at  her,  and  her  life  seemed 
to  furnish  a  sort  of  context  to  that  most  spiritual  of 
love-poems.  And  yet  I  had  not  known  of  her  having 
had  any  heart-grief,  and  no  one  could  tell  me  of  her 
having  lost  any  near  friend  while  I  was  away.  There 
were  moments  when  she  seemed  not  to  be  in  this 
world  at  all.  "  Her  eyes  were  homes  of  silent  prayer." 
The  dreamy,  yearning  look  that  came  into  them  when 
she  sat  quietly,  her  beautiful  hands  folded  before  her, 
seemed  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  unseen  places ; 
and  sometimes  a  strange,  sudden  look  of  rapture  lighted 
them,  such  as  we  may  have  seen  on  the  faces  of  the 
dying. 

And  yet  Eleanor's  life  was  by  no  means  that  of  a 
dreamer.  We  know  how  full  of  work  it  was,  how  full 
of  gracious  employment,  of  loving  help  and  sympathy 
and  comfort.  She  was  the  light  and  embellishment  of 
the  brilliant  assembly,  as  she  was  the  angel  of  mercy  in 
the  homes  of  the  poor  and  suffering.  Her  time  and  her 
self  were  at  the  service  of  any  who  needed  them.  The 
world  was  brighter  and  better  because  she  lived  in  it. 


298        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

"  For  she  had  learned  the  creed  of  creeds, 
The  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds." 

She  was  never  in  what  we  call  "high  spirits,"  and 
yet  I  think  she  was  quite  the  happiest  person  I  have 
ever  known.  To  be  sure,  it  is  only  repeating  myself  to 
say  this,  for  have  I  not  said  that  her  life  was  lived  for 
others  ?  Her  own  beautiful  nature  had  taught  her  the 
secret  which  people  go  through  life  without  learning ; 
longing,  struggling  to  find  Happiness ;  looking  for  it 
in  all  the  unlikeliest  places,  —  from  mountain-tops  of 
success  and  renown ;  wearily  seeking  the  philosopher's 
stone  or  the  alchemist's  elixir ;  asking  it  of  youth,  of 
pleasure,  of  gold.  She  only  looked  straight  before  her 
and  around  her,  and  saw  that 

"  all  worldly  joys  go  less 
To  the  one  joy  of  doing  kindnesses." 

To  men  she  was  irresistibly  fascinating.  They  fell  in 
love  with  her  in  season  and  out  of  season,  as  if  fore 
ordained  and  predestinate  thereto.  They  simply  could 
not  help  themselves,  and  never  blamed  her  for  it ;  so 
she  kept  them  always  as  friends,  after  she  had  declined 
them  as  lovers. 

I  was  often  made  the  confidante  of  these  unlucky 
loves ;  and  the  only  consolation  I  could  offer  was  the 
quite  true,  if  insufficient  one,  that  if  she  did  not  care 


The   Voice.  299 

for  them,  at  least  she  cared  for  no  one  else.  And 
sometimes  I  went  so  far  as  to  remonstrate  with  her 
upon  her  indifference,  when  some  one  unusually  at 
tractive  presented  himself  as  a  suitor  only  to  be  dis 
missed  like  the  rest.  Then  she  would  look  very  sorry 
and  very  grave ;  and  once  she  put  her  hands  in  mine 
and  said,  "  Ah,  my  dearest  Margaret,  some  day  you 
shall  know  !  " 

Just  before  we  came  here  together,  at  the  time  I 
referred  to,  a  friend  of  mine  came  to  see  me  and  told 
me  that  he  had  asked  Eleanor  Gray  to  marry  him,  and 
had  been  rejected.  As  he  talked  of  her,  his  handsome 
face  full  of  emotion,  he  showed  such  manliness,  such  a 
depth  of  devotion,  such  a  passion  of  tenderness,  that  I 
found  myself  wondering  that  any  woman  could  say 
him  nay. 

"  I  love  her  with  my  whole  heart,"  he  said ;  "  I  shall 
love  her  till  I  die.  I  am  not  worthy  of  her ;  what 
man  is?  I  wonder  I  was  ever  so  bold  as  to  confess 
my  love  to  her.  And  yet,  I  am  glad  she  knows  it. 
And  for  myself,  I  am  very  proud  of  it.  Do  you  know," 
he  asked,  "  if  she  has  ever  cared  for  any  one  ?  No  ! 
do  not  answer.  I  have  no  right  to  ask.  But  she  told 
me  she  should  never  marry,  and  I  believe  her.  I  be 
lieve  she  has  no  heart  to  give.  She  seems  to  me  like 
a  vestal  virgin  whose  heart  is  vowed  to  Heaven,  or 


300        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

like  a  woman  who  has  had  one  absorbing  passion  in 
her  life,  of  which  the  object  is  absent,  perhaps  what  we 
call  dead,  yet  ever  living,  ever  present,  to  her." 

I  had  so  often  felt  exactly  like  this  about  Eleanor, 
that  I  started  to  find  my  thought  echoed. 

"  I  can  never  cease  to  care  for  her,"  he  repeated, 
"  never  fail  to  be  her  loyal  friend  and  true  knight ;  and 
such  service  and  devotion  as  I  may  give  her,  will  make 
my  life  richer  than  would  the  love  of  any  woman  on 
earth." 

One  does  not  find  such  chivalry  every  day,  and  this 
man  was  a  special  friend  and  favorite  of  mine ;  and 
altogether  I  could  not  help  feeling  vexed  with  Eleanor, 
though  he  would  not  let  me  say  so. 

A  little  while  after  this  interview  we  two  came  to  Fair 
Harbor  together.  Eleanor  was  very  fond  of  this  region, 
and  we  often  came  here,  or  somewhere  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  for  a  week  or  so,  in  the  spring  or  autumn.  On 
the  afternoon  of  which  I  have  spoken,  —  a  beautiful 
afternoon  in  June,  —  we  had  been  sitting  yonder  at 
the  head  of  the  bay,  watching  the  ships  go  by  in  the 
glow  of  the  sunset ;  neither  of  us  had  spoken  for  some 
time,  when  I  said  by  a  sudden  impulsion,  — 

"  Eleanor,  Hugh  Endicott  told  me  that  he  had  met 
with  the  common  fate.  Forgive  me,  dear,  but  if  you 
only  could  have  cared  for  him  !  He  is  so  clever,  so 


The  Voice.  301 

handsome,  such  a  noble  fellow.  He  seems  to  me  the 
fine  flower  of  our  best  civilization,  —  a  sign  to  the  rest 
of  what  New  England  can  produce  ;  his  career  has  been 
so  brilliant  and  honorable  ;  he  is  interested  and  active 
in  all  good  things.  What  do  you  desire  more  or  better, 
Eleanor  ?  How  can  you  help  caring  for  him  ?  Truly, 
I  do  not  understand." 

While  I  spoke  eagerly,  hurriedly,  Eleanor's  face 
grew  pale  and  flushed  by  turns.  She  began  to  speak, 
stopped,  hesitated,  and  then  raising  her  beautiful  eyes 
to  mine  with  that  ineffable  look  in  them,  she  said,  — 

"  Margaret,  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  why  !  Will  you 
listen  ? 

"  Four  years  ago,  just  before  you  came  from  Eu 
rope,  the  year  of  my  twenty-first  birthday,  indeed 
on  the  evening  of  that  very  day,  I  went  to  a  dinner 
party  given  by  Mrs.  B.  I  remember,  as  if  it  were  yes 
terday,  every  detail  of  that  evening.  I  remember  the 
dress  I  wore.  It  was  all  white,  and  I  had  white  roses 
at  my  belt  and  in  my  hair.  All  the  time  I  was  dress 
ing  I  had  a  strange  sense  of  something  impending, 
something  very  solemn  and  very  unusual.  I  had  never 
felt  anything  like  it  before ;  it  made  me  feel  very 
happy,  but  awe-struck.  I  went  through  my  toilet  as 
if  I  were  in  a  dream.  When  I  came  downstairs,  I  saw 
my  mother  look  at  me.  Then  she  came  to  me,  and 


3O2        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

without  saying  a  word,  kissed  me  on  the  brow ;  and 
my  brother,  who  was  going  with  me,  said,  '  Why, 
Eleanor,  you  look  —  you  look  somehow  like  a  bride 
whose  lover  is  going  off  to  the  war  ! '  How  often  I 
thought  of  his  words  afterwards,  and  of  their  uncon 
scious  prophecy ! 

"  When  we  arrived,  and  were  shown  into  Mrs.  B's 
drawing-room,  the  guests  were  all  assembled,  and  very 
soon  dinner  was  announced.  Mrs.  B.  came  toward 
me  with  a  gentleman  whom  I  had  not  seen,  as  portieres 
had  been  between  us,  and  said,  '  Eleanor,  I  want 
to  present  Captain  Fortescue,  of  the  English  army ; ' 
and  she  told  him  to  take  me  in  to  dinner.  Our  eyes 
met ;  and  oh,  Margaret,  that  first  look  !  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  my  whole  being  were  centred  and  fulfilled 
in  it ;  as  if  I  had  been  waiting  for  that  moment  all 
my  life  long.  I  took  his  arm,  and  we  went  in  to  din 
ner.  It  was  a  brilliant,  gay  dinner.  I  believe  there 
were  fourteen  guests  besides  ourselves,  but  I  cannot 
remember,  I  do  not  think  I  ever  quite  knew,  who  the 
others  were.  I  was  on  the  left  of  my  host,  and  on  his 
right  was  the  lady  for  whom  the  dinner  was  given,  so 
he  talked  principally  with  her.  He  must  have  observed 
my  absorption,  but  I  doubt  if  the  rest  did  especially ; 
at  any  rate,  I  did  not  care.  From  the  moment  I  sat 
down,  my  eyes  and  ears,  my  heart  and  soul,  were  given 


The    Voice.  303 

to  him.     It  was  an  absolute,  unconditional  surrender 
of  myself.     We  talked  of  many  things,  —  of  books,  of 
music,  of  American  and  English  politics,  of  some  of 
the  deeper  things  of  life;  of  each  other;  and  as  we 
talked  I  felt  with  startling  conviction  that  we  sympa 
thized  absolutely,  radically,  on  every  subject.     It  was 
wonderful.     At  last  I  asked  him  how  long  he  had  been 
in  Boston.     '  Not  yet  one  whole  day,'  he  replied.     '  I 
came  this  afternoon,  and  '  —  he  hesitated ;    I  looked 
up  at  him  ;   all  color  had  left  his  face,  and  his  voice 
faltered  — '  and  I  must  go  away  to-morrow  ! '     I  forced 
myself  to  speak,  but  only  to  repeat  his  words  :  '  You 
must  go  to-morrow  ! '     '  Yes,'  he  said.     '  I  had  a  cable 
message  just  before  I  came  here  this  evening.     My 
regiment  is  ordered  to  Zulu-land,  and  I  must   start 
directly  to  join  it.     I  sail  from  here  to-morrow  !'     And 
then,  before  I  could  answer,  something  happened  !     A 
Voice,  clear  and  distinct  as  mine  speaking  to  you  now, 
but  which  had  in  it  no  earthly  sound,  it  was  so  pure 
and  silvery,  said  close  at  my  ear,  '  Tell  him  that  you 
love  him  !    You  may  never  see  him  again  in  this  world  ! 
Oh,  let  him  know  it  now  ! ' ' 

Eleanor  paused  for  a  moment,  and  bowed  her  head. 
I  put  my  arms  round  her  without  a  word.  Presently 
she  raised  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  shining  with  an 
unearthly,  holy  light.  She  seemed  to  be  listening  again 


304        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

to  some  voice  I  could  not  hear.  Then  she  went 
on  :  — 

"  I  hardly  know  what  happened  for  a  moment  after 
that.  I  think  I  must  have  been  almost  unconscious, — 
out  of  myself,  as  we  say.  When  I  next  heard  a  voice 
speak,  it  was  his  own,  but  in  a  hushed,  low  tone,  as  if 
to  himself,  — '  Oh,  my  God,  if  I  dared  ! '  I  am  sure  my 
agitation  must  soon  have  been  perceived  by  the  rest  of 
the  company,  but  in  a  very  short  time  my  hostess 
made  a  move,  and  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room. 
Captain  Fortescue  excused  himself  from  returning  with 
the  gentlemen,  and  said  he  must  go  to  his  rooms  to 
pack  his  trunk,  as  he  was  to  sail  the  next  morning. 
He  walked  beside  me  to  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  without  a  word  ;  but  as  he  bade  me  good-by  he 
took  my  hand  in  his  and  said,  '  Will  you  give  me  one 
of  your  white  roses  ? '  I  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  said, 
'  I  shall  write  to  you,  may  I  ?  And  we  shall  meet 
again  ! ' 

"  After  that  I  don't  at  all  remember  what  passed, 
nor  how  I  got  home.  I  believe  some  of  the  women 
rallied  me  on  my  'conquest,'  as  they  called  it,  of  the 
'  handsome  English  officer,'  but  I  did  not  heed,  and 
scarcely  heard  them.  I  only  knew  that  I  had  bidden 
him  good-by;  and  I  kept  saying  to  myself  all  that 
night :  — 


The   Voice.  305 

'  But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true, 
For  though  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell.' 

"Three  weeks  from  that  evening,"  Eleanor  said, 
after  another  pause,  "  I  was  walking  home  alone, 
across  the  Common.  It  was  a  mellow  afternoon  in 
November.  The  sun  had  just  gone  down,  leaving  a 
rich  crimson-and-gold  afterglow  in  the  western  sky. 
The  church  towers  and  spires  beyond  were  lighted  up, 
and  showed  through  the  almost  leafless  trees  in  front 
of  me  like  beacon-lights  pointing  to  heaven.  There 
was  no  one  near ;  I  could  hear  no  footstep  but  my 
own,  and  no  sound  but  the  dropping  of  the  autumn 
leaves,  and  the  rustle  of  them  as  I  walked.  Suddenly, 
close  at  my  ear,  came  the  silvery  tones  of  the  Voice, 
the  same  which  spoke  to  me  that  evening,  in  the  su 
preme  hour  of  my  life.  It  said,  '  Wait !  It  is  only 
for  a  little  while.  If  the  Dawn  tarry,  wait  thou  for  the 
Dawn.' 

"  Nearly  a  month  passed  away,  and  then  I  received 
through  Mrs.  B.,  the  lady  at  whose  house  I  had  dined, 
and  addressed  to  her  care,  a  thick  letter  from  Natal. 
I  had  never  seen  his  handwriting,  but  I  knew  it  was 
not  he  who  had  addressed  that  letter.  I  broke  the 

envelope,  and  two  letters  were  inside.     The  first  I  read 
20 


306        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

was  from  a  brother  officer,  and  was  very  brief.  It  told 
me  that  his  friend  Captain  Lionel  Fortescue  had  gone 
into  battle  directly  after  his  arrival  with  his  regiment 
at  Natal,  and  had  been  struck  down  while  leading  a 
charge  against  the  Zulus  at  Bushman's  River  Pass. 
He  lived  only  a  few  hours,  long  enough  to  write  the 
enclosed  lines,  and  to  charge  his  friend  with  his  dying 
breath  to  see  that  they  were  sent.  He  also  asked  that 
a  withered  white  rose,  which  was  found  where  he  indi 
cated,  should  be  buried  with  him. 

"His  letter  I  can  repeat  to  you  word  for  word," 
Eleanor  said,  "  for  I  say  it  over  to  myself  every  day. 
He  wrote  :  '  My  darling,  when  I  bade  you  good-by 
that  night,  I  said  we  should  meet  again ;  and  now  I 
know  more  certainly  even  than  I  knew  it  then,  that  we 
shall.  That  night  we  were  betrothed  to  one  another 
forever.  We  needed  no  word  of  declaration  or  assent ; 
and  yet,  I  wish  I  had  told  you  then  that  I  loved  you. 
I  wish  I  had  obeyed  the  Voice  that  spoke  to  me  ;  for  as 
surely  as  it  is  sure  that  my  soul  and  body  will  be  parted 
ere  another  day  dawn,  did  I  hear  a  Voice  which  was  not 
of  this  earth  say  to  me  as  we  sat  together,  "  Tell  her  now 
that  you  love  her  !  You  may  never  meet  again  in  this 
world.  Oh,  tell  her,  tell  her  now  !  "  And  I  only  said  to 
myself,  "  Oh,  my  God,  if  I  dared  !  "  I  know  now 
that  it  would  have  been  no  daring ;  that  I  might  have 


The   Voice.  307 

spoken  and  told  you  the  truth.  But  it  is  only  for  a 
little  while  that  I  leave  you,  my  own,  my  bride,  my 
love  !  God  is  very  good,  and  it  will  not  be  for  long. 
So  I  wait  till  you  come  to  me,  beloved,  there  where 
there  will  be  no  seas  between,  and  no  partings.'  It 
ended  here.  In  the  other  letter  his  brother  officer 
said  that  he  had  left  him  for  a  moment  while  he  was 
writing,  and  came  back  to  find  him  lying  still  on  his 
camp-bed,  asleep,  he  thought ;  but  when  he  went 
close  and  spoke  to  him  he  found  that  he  was  dead. 
So,"  said  Eleanor  quietly,  "  I  wait,  dear  friend  ;  it  can 
only  be  for  a  little  while,  and  God  is  very  good.  I 
am  content  to  wait." 

Soon  after  she  told  me  what  I  have  faithfully  related 
to  you,  her  sister's  little  boy,  of  whom  she  was  devot 
edly  fond,  was  attacked  by  scarlet  fever.  Eleanor  in 
sisted  upon  nursing  him,  and  he  died  in  her  arms. 
She  took  the  disease  herself,  you  remember,  and  died 
after  a  few  days.  I  did  not  see  her  again  till  after  her 
death,  and  then  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  into  the 
room  where  she  lay.  She  never  looked  more  beautiful 
in  life.  There  were  white  roses  on  her  breast  and  in 
her  hands,  and  on  her  face,  whiter  than  the  roses,  was 
the  look  of  rapture  and  of  sight. 

I  stooped  down  and  whispered,  "This  kiss  is  for 
your  bridal  day,  my  darling  !  " 


308        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

Muriel  stood  at  her  window  that  night,  and 
the  waning  moon  looked  mournfully  in  at  her. 
Deep  in  her  own  soul  was  a  great  new  joy,  the 
thought  of  which  raised  a  tumult  of  happy  heart 
beats;  yet  to-night  she  almost  reproached  her 
self  for  being  happy,  as  Wyatt's  sad,  pleading 
face  came  up  before  her,  and  the  tones  of  his 
voice  full  of  passionate  despair. 

Outside,  the  moon's  pale  rays  shone  down 
upon  the  gray  water;  all  else  was  darkness. 
The  watch-light  was  gone ;  the  vigil  was  over. 
The  rote  of  the  waves  as  they  broke  on  the  bar 
sounded  to  Muriel,  with  their  sad  monotonous 
refrain,  like  the  sob  of  farewell  words,  and  the 
sighing  night-wind  bore  to  her  ears  the  eternal 
murmur  of  "  the  unrecognizing  sea." 


To  pray  together,  in  whatever  tongue  or  ritual,  is  the 
most  tender  brotherhood  of  hope  and  sympathy  that  men 

can  contract  in  this  life. 

MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

//  is  those  who  understand  what  a  church  is,  who  are 
the  least  likely  to  rest  in  it,  or  in  anything  short  of  Him 

to  whom  it  leads. 

DORA  GREENWELL. 

O  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  ;  looking  forth 

As  from  the  mount  of  vision,  I  behold 
Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  church  of  Christ  on  earth, 

The  martyrs  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold. 

WHITTIER. 

The  American  Church  is  the  great  total  body  of  Chris 
tianity  in  America,  in  many  divisions,  under  many 
names,  broken,  discordant,  disjointed,  often  quarrelsome 
and  disgracefully  jealous,  part  of  part,  yet  as  a  whole 
bearing  perpetual  testimony  to  the  people  of  America,  of 
the  authority  and  love  of  God,  of  the  redemption  of  Christ, 
and  of  the  sacred  possibilities  of  man.  .  .  . 

We  look  on,  and  far,  far  away  we  see  the  Nation- 
Church,  the  land  all  full  of  Christ,  a  true  part  of  the 
World-Church,  issuing  into  glorious  life  and  swallowing 
up  our  small  ecclesiasticisms,  as  the  sun  grandly  climbing 
up  the  heavens  swallows  up  the  scattered  rays  which  he 

sent  out  at  his  rising. 

PHILLIPS  BROOKS. 


SEVENTH    DAY. 

As  they  were  driving  home  from  church  this 
Sunday  morning  Margaret  said,  "  Look  at  those 
cabbage-fields,  —  those  happy  cabbage-fields  ! 
Why  don't  poets  and  painters  make  more  of 
them?  With  their  many  beautiful  shades  of 
purple,  blue,  and  green,  like  the  sea  along  the 
Riviera,  and  their  look  of  plenteous  and  ab 
solute  content,  they  are  a  delight  to  my  eyes. 
If  there  were  not  an  unreasoning  prejudice 
against  them  as  an  unaesthetic  article  of  food, 
if  they  could  be  called  by  another  name,  they 
would  be  sung  and  painted,  I  have  no  doubt. 
In  that  matter  of  names  Shakespeare  made  his 
one  foolish  remark." 

'•  I  have  often  wished  to  write  the  epic  of  the 
cabbage-field,"  said  the  Professor;  "  and  as  to 
pumpkins,  just  look  at  that  glorious  pile  of  them 
against  the  gray  shingled  farm-house  yonder,  — 
the  farm-house  with  the  lean-to  roof,  and  the 


312        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

well-sweep,  and  the  festoons  of  dried  apples 
hanging  from  the  roof,  and  the  herbs  drying  in 
the  sun.  What  a  picture  !  " 

"  Stop  for  a  moment  at  Captain  Nye's  door," 
said  Margaret.  "  I  want  to  ask  Mrs.  Nye  at  what 
hour  she  expects  us  to  tea  this  evening." 

Mrs.  Nye  had  but  just  got  home  from  meeting 
herself,  and  stood  at  the  door  in  a  shining  black 
silk  dress,  and  Leghorn  bonnet  trimmed  with 
dove-colored  satin  ribbon. 

"  We  will  have  supper  at  seven  to-night,  if 
that  suits  you  all,"  said  she.  "  Father  and  I 
are  so  pleased  that  you  're  coming.  I  ain't  seen 
father  so  happy  about  anything  for  ever  so 
long." 

"  It  is  to  be  the  best  evening  of  the  week 
for  us,  dear  Mrs.  Nye,"  said  Margaret.  "  I 
wanted  my  friends  to  have  the  pleasantest  for 
the  last." 

As  they  drove  away  from  the  door,  the  old 
Captain  came  round  from  the  barn,  where  he 
had  been  putting  up  his  horse. 

"  Father,"  said  Mrs.  Nye,  "  what  do  you  think 
about  it?  " 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        313 

"Think  about  what?  I  was  wondering  why 
the  brindle  had  n't  given  as  much  milk  as  com 
mon  for  two  days  past." 

"  Father,"  said  Mrs.  Nye  solemnly,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  "  do  you  remember  what  I 
said  to  you  about  Mis'  Temple  and  that  Pro 
fessor  when  they  rode  by  on  horseback  the  other 
afternoon?" 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Martha,  hpw  you  women 
folks  do  go  on !  You  know  you  would  have  it 
our  Dick  was  going  to  marry  Lawyer  Willet's 
daughter  the  second  time  you  ever  saw  them 
together." 

"Well,  and  was  I  right?  Did  our  Dick  marry 
Lawyer  Willet's  daughter,  or  did  he  not?" 

"  Yes,  he  did,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  acknowl 
edged  the  Captain.  "  But  that  don't  prove 
folks  are  always  thinking  o'  marrying;  and  I 
never  see  the  man  yet  I  thought  good  enough 
for  Mis'  Temple." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  church-going  people  en 
joyed  your  church  and  your  sermon,"  said 
Bowdoin,  who  had  not  been. 


314        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"  I  enjoyed  both  greatly,"  said  Muriel. 
"  What  a  dear  old  man  the  clergyman  is,  and 
what  a  comforting,  helpful  sermon  he  gave  us ! 
Our  rector  at  home  is  such  a  dreadful  pessimist, 
it  always  takes  one  a  week  to  recover  from  the 
depression  of  the  Sunday  before." 

"  Yes,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  always  think  of 
those  lines  of  Matthew  Arnold's  when  1  hear 
such  a  sermon  as  that,  and  when  I  look  at  Mr. 
Hall's  life.  Do  you  remember,  — 

'And  yet  it  seemeth  not  to  me 
That  the  high  gods  love  tragedy, 
For  Saadi  sat  in  the  sun, 
And  thanks  was  his  contrition  : 
For  haircloth  and  for  bloody  whips 
Had  active  hands  and  smiling  lips  ; 
And  yet  his  runes  he  nightly  read, 
And  to  his  folk  his  message  sped. 
Sunshine  in  his  heart  transferred, 
Lighted  each  transparent  word  ; 
And  well  could  honoring  Persia  learn 
What  Saadi  wished  to  say.' 

It  is  really  an  excellent  description  of  Mr. 
Hall.  He  does  incalculable  good  in  his  parish 
by  just  living  and  being  what  he  is." 

"  It  is  a  pity  more  of  his  calling  were  not  like 


A  Week  away  from   Time,        3 1 5 

him,"  remarked  Tom  Bowdoin.  "  Generally 
speaking,  I  should  apply  to  them  and  to  many 
of  their  congregations  what  somebody  or  other 
said,  — '  The  paucity  of  Christians  is  remarkable, 
considering  the  number  of  them.'  And  as  to 
going  to  church,  I  have  no  objection  to  any 
one's  going  if  they  like.  For  myself,  I  prefer  — 
and  he  drew  a  long  puff  at  his  cigar. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about 
that,"  said  Margaret. 

"  About  what?  "  asked  Tom.  "  I  had  n't  said 
anything." 

"  No  ;  but  I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say, 
—  that  God  can  be  worshipped  as  truly  in  the 
fields  and  woods  as  in  a  church  ;  that  the  groves 
were  God's  first  temples ;  about  looking  from 
Nature  up  to  Nature's  God,  — I  have  heard  it  all, 
often,  and  I  don't  deny  that  there  is  something 
in  it.  A  reverent  soul  lifts  itself  to  its  Maker 
anywhere,  everywhere,  and  never  more  fer 
vently  perhaps  than  when  in  the  midst  of  the 
beauty  which  comes  straight  from  His  hand  for 
our  joy  and  thanksgiving.  But  lively  emotions 
of  gratitude  for  God's  goodness,  springing  up 


3 1 6        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

constantly  in  a  man's  breast,  argue  a  religious 
spirit;  and  a  religious  spirit  is  apt  to  express 
itself  by  direct  acts  of  worship.  Such  acts  are 
naturally  performed  in  the  modes  and  places 
which  mankind  has  for  ages  regarded  as  most 
fitting ;  and  so  the  majority  of  the  civilized  world 
has  agreed  to  gather  together  on  certain  days,  at 
stated  times,  to  express  in  divers  fashion  their 
love  and  gratitude,  and  to  ask  for  help  and 
forgiveness." 

"  Then  you  think  church-going  the  absolute 
test  of  piety  and  religious  feeling,"  said  Bowdoin. 

"By  no  means;  no,  indeed,"  replied  Marga 
ret  warmly.  "  Some  of  the  most  truly  spiritual 
people  I  have  ever  known  have  never  entered  a 
church  since  they  began  to  think  for  themselves. 
I  have  even  known  very  good  people  who 
seemed  to  feel  a  sort  of  revolt  and  disgust  for 
all  kinds  of  external  religious  manifestation.  I 
had  one  dear  friend,  an  eminently  religious  man, 
who  tried  hard  to  cure  me  of  going  to  church, 
and  thought  it  unworthy  a  woman  of  sense. 
He  used  to  shudder  with  contemptuous  horror 
when  he  saw  the  black-robed  High  Church 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        3 1 7 

fathers  go  by  my  window  in  their  '  pitiful  petti 
coats,'  as  he  called  them.  But  such  persons 
are  rare  exceptions,  and  dangerous  exceptions 
besides." 

"  Why  dangerous?  "  asked  Bowdoin  ;  and  the 
Professor  looked  up  eagerly,  to  see  what  Mar 
garet  was  going  to  answer. 

"  I  wish  some  one  else  would  speak,"  said  she, 
blushing.  "  Why  do  I  seem  to  be  preaching  a 
sermon  myself?  I  am  sure  I  never  meant  to." 

"  Please  answer  my  question,"  urged  Bow 
doin, —  "why  dangerous?" 

"  Because  they  set  a  bad  example,  I  cannot 
help  thinking.  Because  this  very  talk  about 
worshipping  God  in  His  works  is  initiated  and 
encouraged  (sincerely,  I  have  no  doubt)  by 
such  persons.  And  just  because  they  are  good 
men,  whose  lives  are  above  reproach,  they  are 
pointed  at  (by  the  illogical)  as  proofs  of  the 
good  effects  of  non-churchgoing;  and  unfortu 
nate  instances  of  men  who  do  go  to  church,  and 
yet  who  are  dissolute  or  dishonorable,  who  lie 
or  cheat  or  embezzle,  are  brought  forward  (also 
by  the  illogical)  as  evidence  of  the  little  good, 


3 1 8        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

if  not  of  the  absolute  harm,  of  religious  forms 
and  observances.  That  is  why  it  seems  to  me 
that  men  or  women  who  stay  habitually  away 
from  church,  no  matter  how  excellent  and  moral 
their  lives  may  be,  are  setting  bad  examples, 
and  in  so  far  are  dangerous  in  their  day  and 
generation." 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Miss  Carr* 
Wynstede?"  asked  Ralph. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  Mrs.  Temple.  And  I 
have  noticed  one  thing  at  home.  The  people 
who  don't  go  to  church,  and  talk  about  it  being 
quite  as  well  to  say  one's  prayers  in  the  \voods 
and  fields,  don't  seem  to  me  to  go  into  the 
country  on  Sundays  with  that  view,  though  I 
may  do  them  injustice.  I  dare  say  one's  frame 
of  mind  may  be  as  religious  in  strolling  about 
one's  grounds,  or  sailing  in  one's  yacht,  or  driv 
ing  about  the  country,  as  in  going  to  a  service 
in  church,  only  it  don't  look  so,  you  know." 

"But  one  shouldn't  mind  the  look  of  the 
thing,  should  one,  so  long  as  the  thing  itself 
is  no  harm,"  said  Bowdoin;  "and  whose  busi 
ness  is  it,  after  all?" 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        319 

"  If  every  one  of  us  lived  on  an  island  of  his 
own,"  the  Professor  said,  "  that  would  do  very 
well.  But  as  we  none  of  us  can  escape  the 
responsibility  that  comes  from  our  all  being 
members  of  one  big  family,  the  lives  we  lead 
and  the  examples  we  set  do  come  to  be  the 
business  of  all  the  rest,  down  to  the  minutest 
particular,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  If  we  had  an  established  church  in  America, 
as  you  have  in  England,  Miss  Carr-Wynstede," 
said  Tom  Bowdoin,  "  there  would  be  some  satis 
faction  in  belonging  to  it.  But  here,  where  in 
every  little  village  there  are  half  a  dozen  different 
sects,  all  quarrelling  and  disputing  among  them 
selves  and  with  their  neighbors,  there  seems  to 
be  no  rest  for  one's  soul.  If  I  had  the  power,  I 
would  decree  that  henceforth  in  all  America  there 
should  be,  literally,  one  faith  and  one  baptism, 
and  an  American  church;  and  all  outside  of  it 
should  be  under  the  ban,  and  looked  upon  as 
dissenters  and  heretics.  Then  I  would  be  a 
Churchman  myself." 

"  I  have  heard  Tom  talk  like  this  before," 
said  his  wife,  "  but  I  cannot  really  think  he  is 


320        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

in  earnest.  I  certainly  do  not  agree  with  him  in 
the  least." 

"  Ralph,"  said  Margaret,  "  do  you  remember 
when  we  were  at  Woodstable  one  autumn,  years 
ago,  when  Mrs.  Stuart  was  with  us,  and  would  n't 
go  to  '  meeting,'  but  rode  or  drove  or  sailed  on 
Sundays?  She  was  a  Churchwoman,  and  did 
not  consider  the  little  Methodist  place  of  wor 
ship  church  at  all.  I  always  thought  she  made 
a  grievous  mistake,  for  she  either  hurt  the  feelings 
of  the  townspeople  by  seeming  to  despise  their 
humble  meeting-house,  or  else  gave  them  to 
suppose  that  she  had  no  respect  for  Sunday  and 
no  religion  at  all  herself.  I  wonder  if  she  ever 
considered  the  bad  example  she  set  to  the  young 
people  in  that  village,  or  how  many  Sabbath- 
breakers  she  is  responsible  for  to-day?" 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  Mrs. 
Chauncey,  "  I  like  to  go  to  church,  and  always 
do  when  I  can.  When  Paul  and  I  were  in 
Europe,  we  always  used  to  go  to  the  English 
churches  on  the  Continent,  when  there  were 
any.  The  only  thing  I  objected  to  was  pray 
ing  so  often  for  the  Queen  and  the  royal 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        321 

family,  —  begging  your  pardon,  my  dear  Miss 
Carr-Wynstede !  I  was  always  quite  willing  to 
do  it  once ;  but  when  it  came  to  five  or  six  times 
in  one  morning  service  (and  the  service  so  long 
any  way),  it  was  too  much,  and  I  just  did  n't  do 
it,  and  tried  to  think  of  something  else.  If  once 
is  enough  for  our  President,  it  is  enough,  or  ought 
to  be,  for  the  Queen.  I  did  n't  at  all  blame  a 
little  boy  who  said  to  his  mother,  '  What  a  very 
wicked  family  it  must  be,  mamma,  to  need  so 
much  praying  for  !  " 

Muriel  laughed  at  this,  but  said  her  laugh 
meant  no  disloyalty;  and  then  she  said  very 
seriously,  "  I  was  in  Boston  only  two  Sundays, 
but  two  Sundays  meant  going  to  a  certain 
church  four  times ;  and  I  wondered,  as  I  looked 
round  at  the  vast  congregation  which  filled 
every  seat  and  every  corner,  if  they  truly  ap 
preciated  the  privilege  it  was  to  live  in  a  city 
where  their  souls  could  be  fed  and  their  lives 
guided  by  that  inspired  preaching  and  teaching. 
I  wonder  still.  Sometimes  what  one  has,  what 
is  so  freely  given,  comes  to  be  looked  upon  as 

a  matter  of  course." 

21 


322        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

"The  same  question  has  often  occurred  to 
my  mind,"  said  Professor  Kirkland.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  responsibility  in  this  case  is  as 
solemn  as  the  privilege  is  great ;  and  that  if  the 
sheep  hear  the  voice  without  heeding  it,  —  if 
they  '  look  up  and  are  not  fed,'  because  of  their 
own  insensibility  and  hardness  of  heart,  they 
will  be  in  more  woful  condition  than  if  they 
had  never  come  near  the  fold." 


Joy  is  the  vital  air  of  the  soul.  Health  is  the  first  of 
all  liberties,  and  Happiness  gives  us  the  energy  which 
is  the  basis  of  health.  To  inake  any  one  happy,  then,  is 
strictly  to  augment  his  store  of  being,  to  double  the  inten 
sity  of  his  life,  to  reveal  him  to- himself,  to  ennoble  and 
transfigure  him.  Happiness  does  away  with  ugliness, 
and  even  makes  the  beauty  of  beauty.  In  Paradise,  then, 
every  one  will  be  beautiful.  For,  as  the  righteous  soul  is 
naturally  beautiful,  and  as  happiness  beautifies  all  tJiat  it 
penetrates  or  even  touches,  ugliness  will  have  no  place 
in  the  universe,  and  will  disappear  with  grief,  sin,  and 

death. 

AMIEL,  Journal  Intime. 

Happiness  is  cumulative,  as  misery  is.  Happiness  has 
no  limits,  as  heaven  has  neither  bottom  nor  bounds,  and 
because  happiness  is  nothing  but  the  conquest  of  God 

through  Love. 

IBID. 


EVENING   OF   SEVENTH    DAY. 

THE  afternoon  had  been  passed  in  various 
ways  by  the  friends  who  knew  that  it  was  the 
last.  Muriel  and  Ralph  had  wandered  off,  over 
the  hills  and  far  away,  and  came  home  just  in 
time  to  get  ready  for  Mrs.  Nye's  tea-party. 
Margaret  and  her  brother-in-law  had  driven  to 
Wood's  Holl  to  make  some  visits,  and  she  told 
Bell  to  make  the  most  of  the  hammock,  to  be 
covered  with  plenty  of  wraps,  as  the  air  was 
cool,  and  to  let  the  Professor  stay  with  her  un 
der  the  lindens;  "  for,"  said  she,  kissing  her  sis 
ter  and  blushing  rosy  red,  "  he  has  a  secret  to 
tell  you,  which  is  mine  too,  and  which  I  want 
him  to  tell  you  himself." 

Mrs.  Chauncey  said  she  should  go  to  her  hotel 
and  write  letters  and  take  a  nap,  and  would  join 
them  at  the  farm-house  at  seven  o'clock.  "  I 
never  did  take  tea  in  a  farm-house,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  should  think  it  would  be  delightful.  It 


326        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

reminds    me    exactly  of  the    Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,  only  that  this  is  Sunday." 

We  are  apt  to  say  that  a  table  "  groans  "  when 
it  is  laden  with  good  things ;  but  it  would  seem 
an  inappropriate  phrase,  as  if  the  table  were 
unsympathetic  and  ungracious,  and  bore  its 
burden  grudgingly.  Mrs.  Nye's  table  did  not 
groan ;  it  fairly  laughed  and  clapped  its  leaves, 
and  overflowed  with  gladness  at  its  own  good 
cheer.  There  never  was  such  a  tea-time,  —  oys 
ters  of  the  sweetest  and  rarest,  in  the  shell  and 
escaloped ;  cold  roast  chicken  and  ham  and 
tongue ;  and  a  smoking  hot  pasty,  out  of  whose 
flaky  depths  came  quail  and  partridges  and  all 
manner  of  riches;  and  hot  biscuits,  white  and 
light  as  snow  just  fallen ;  and  waffles  and  grid 
dle  (or  girdle1}  cakes;  and  such  honey  from 
her  own  bees;  and  such  preserves  and  plum- 
cake  ;  and,  as  the  feast's  perfect  and  consummate 
crown,  the  Quahog  cakes. 

"  That  any  one  should  dream  that  he  knows 
what  Quahog  cakes  can  be  until  he  has  eaten 

1  Scottice. 


A  Week  away  from   Time.        327 

these,  or  having  eaten  these,  that  he  should  ever 
try  to  have  them  made  at  home,  seems  to  me 
the  acme  of  human  folly  and  conceit,"  exclaimed 
Margaret;  and  they  all  cried,  "Hear,  hear!" 
And  Mrs.  Nye's  purple  cap-ribbons  trembled 
with  pleasure,  and  her  whole  benevolent,  bounti 
ful  person  shone  with  content. 

"  Dear  Mis'  Temple,"  she  said,  "  I  felt  real 
bad  at  first  when  you  took  the  White  House  and 
settled  there,  'cause  it  seemed  somehow  as  if  we 
was  going  to  lose  you  !  But  I  declare  for  't, 
I  'm  just  as  glad  now  as  I  can  be,  for  \ve  have  n't 
lost  you  a  bit ;  and  as  I  said  to  father,  it 's  as 
good  as  Thanksgiving,  any  day,  to  have  you  and 
your  friends  sit  down  at  our  board  to-night." 

After  supper  Mrs.  Nye  showed  the  way  into 
the  parlor,  or  "sitting-room."  This  was  a  sol 
emn  occasion,  and  worthy  of  the  room,  which 
was  seldom  used  except  at  times  of  peculiar 
import,  such  as  weddings,  sewing-bees,  or  funer 
als.  A  fire  had  been  lighted  there  some  hours 
before  the  guests  arrived,  so  that  there  was  none 
of  the  musty,  uninhabited  flavor  of  rooms  which 
are  not  used  as  "  living  rooms."  But  it  did 


328        A   Week  away  from   Time. 

have  an  aromatic,  Oriental,  delicious  odor  of  its 
own,  and  it  was  full  of  handsome  and  curious 
things  which  the  old  captain  had  brought  home 
long  ago  from  his  voyages  in  foreign  lands. 
There  was  a  Russian  samovar,  and  two  big 
Chinese  bowls,  one  filled  with  "  pot-pourri " 
made  of  rose-leaves  and  lavender  and  rosemary 
and  white  lilies  and  all  sorts  of  sweet-smelling 
dead  petals  which  never  die,  and  the  other  full 
of  fresh  marigolds  and  gladioli  and  mignonette 
and  pansies  and  sweet  peas  and  many-colored 
asters  and  bright  autumn  vines.  The  mantel 
shelf  was  decked  with  rare  and  beautiful  shells, 
and  on  the  floor  were  some  old  Turkey  and 
Persian  rugs.  Several  pieces  of  old  oak  furni 
ture,  with  shining  brass  trimmings  and  claw  feet, 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  in  their  places  since 
Colonial  days.  An  inlaid  cabinet  from  Japan 
stood  in  one  corner,  filled  with  cups  and  saucers, 
plates  and  tea-services  of  old  Lowestoffe  and 
Chelsea  and  Delft  ware.  There  were  handsome 
brass  andirons  and  fire-irons,  and  a  fender  of 
fine  workmanship,  which  would  have  excited  the 
covetous  desires  of  any  connoisseur. 


A  Week  away  from  Time.        329 

"  How  have  you  been  able  to  keep  these 
beautiful  things  from  the  hand  of  the  spoiler?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Bowdoin.  "  I  have  friends  in  Bos 
ton,  who  I  truly  believe,  if  they  knew  of  their 
existence,  would  break  and  enter,  and  get  them 
from  you  by  fair  means  or  foul." 

Mrs.  Nye  laughed  good-humoredly.  "  Why, 
you  would  n't  believe  the  things  ladies  have 
done,"  said  she.  "  They  have  come  from  miles 
around,  —  from  Wood's  Holl  and  Falmouth  and 
Cotuit ;  yes,  and  from  Mattapoisett  and  Marion 
and  Monument.  Some  comes  and  makes  a 
pretence  of  asking  their  way,  and  saying  they  're 
tired,  and  may  they  come  in  and  have  a  glass 
of  water,  and  so  works  the  conversation  round. 
And  they  coax  and  wheedle  and  bribe,  and 
some  of  them  have  got  real  right-down  mad 
when  I  would  n't  sell  'em  at  any  price,  and  said 
things  —  well,  it  made  me  feel  bad  to  think  a 
lady  should  say  'em.  But  it 's  never  been  any 
use  their  getting  mad,  and  it  never  will  be. 
Father  began  to  bring  me  these  knick-knack 
eries  before  we  was  married,  —  when  he  was 
courtin'  me,  —  and  kept  right  on  as  long  as  he 


330        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

went  to  sea  (except  some  of  that  chany  and 
furniture  that  are  heirlooms)  ;  and  do  you  sup 
pose  I  am  going  to  let  'em  go  for  money? 
No,  not  till  father  and  I  are  starving,  which, 
please  Heaven,  we  hope  that  time  will  never 
come.  No,  they  '11  go  to  our  son  Dick 
that  's  married  and  lives  out  West,  and  's  got 
a  likely  wrife  and  children ;  except  one  or  two, 
which  I  will  say,  Mis'  Temple,  I  've  seen  you 
admire,  and  we  've  testamented  'em  away  to 
you." 

"  Indeed,  it  will  be  a  sad  day  for  me  when 
I  see  one  of  them  in  any  room  but  this,  dear 
Mrs.  Nye,"  said  Margaret  affectionately. 

The  Captain,  who  had  on  his  best  Sunday 
black  wig  and  sharpest-pointed  shirt-collar, 
around  which  was  a  black  satin  stock  which 
made  him  a  little  stiff-necked,  now  came  toward 
Margaret,  and  said  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice, 
looking  at  the  Professor  as  he  spoke. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Margaret.  "  The  fact  is, 
Mr.  Kirkland,  I  told  the  Captain,  when  we  first 
came  this  evening,  that  you  had  something  you 
had  promised  to  read  to  us  if  we  had  stayed  at 


Happiness.  331 

home  to-night,  and  which  I  had  induced  you  to 
bring  with  you." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  serious  for  so  festive  an 
occasion,"  said  Kirkland. 

"  Oh,  do  let  us  hear  it,  Professor,"  urged  the 
Captain.  "  Why  should  n't  we  have  something 
serious?  We  are  serious  folks,  I  hope,  all  of 
us,  in  one  sense ;  and  if  the  Professor  will  do  us 
the  honor  to  read  what  he  has  brought,  I  am 
sure  we  shall  never  forget  his  goodness.  I  speak 
for  mother,  I  know,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  I 
guess  I  speak  for  all  this  company." 

"  Then  here  goes,"  said  the  Professor,  "  I 
can't  resist  such  kind  words  as  yours,  Captain; 
and  if  the  others  find  my  essay  on  Happiness 
more  than  they  can  bear,  I  shall  not  be  in  the 
least  hurt  if  they  leave  in  the  middle  of  it." 


HAPPINESS. 

Not  long  ago  I  listened  to  the  discussion  of  a  very 
interesting  question,  —  a  question  that  may  be  said  to 
have  had  a  place  in  the  speculation  of  human  beings 
of  all  times  ;  no  less  a  question,  in  short,  than  how  to 


332        A  Week  away  from   Time. 

be  happy,  or,  in  other  words,  what  quality,  or  attri 
bute,  would  lead  to  the  greatest  attainment  of  happi 
ness.  It  was  very  interesting  to  listen  to  the  modes 
by  which  one  or  another  thought  that  happiness  was 
to  be  achieved,  if  achieved  at  all.  Some,  indeed,  felt 
as  if  we  might  as  well  begin  by  relinquishing  the  expec 
tation  of  happiness  at  first,  not  attempting  to  cheat 
ourselves  into  a  hope  which  could  never  be  realized  ; 
or  again,  with  Carlyle,  that  happiness  was  not  even  to 
be  desired,  but  that  we  should  substitute  blessedness 
for  happiness,  and  count  ourselves  the  better  off  for 
the  change.  In  fact,  as  at  the  beginning  of  all  discus 
sions,  one  must  clear  the  ground  by  finding  first  what 
people  mean  by  the  words  they  use ;  for  the  same 
words  are  used  to  mean  a  thousand  different  things, 
according  to  the  temper  or  the  complexion  of  him  who 
uses  them  ;  according  to  his  sentiment  or  condition  ; 
according  to  the  lines  of  thought  or  action  at  a  given 
time  ;  or  even  according  to  the  conventional  standard 
of  a  certain  period.  There  are  cheap  and  superficial 
ways  of  using  noble  words,  there  are  partial  and  per 
sonal  ways  ;  and  in  the  confusion  of  ideas  which  results 
from  all  this,  no  wonder  that  we  hear  so  many  half- 
truths  spoken  ;  no  wonder  that  some  say  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  happiness,  and  others  that  if  there  be 
such  a  thing  it  is  unattainable  by  mortals.  Yet,  at  the 


Happ  iness.  333 

same  time,  whether  there  be  happiness  or  nof,  we 
must  remark  the  deep  and  pathetic  witness  borne  to 
the  craving  for  it  in  the  human  breast,  in  the  very 
frequency  and  variety  of  the  definitions  given.  For  all 
the  way  from  Socrates  to  Schopenhauer,  many  wise 
men  and  every  thinking  man  have  set  themselves  to 
defining  in  some  shape  or  other  this  condition  of  the 
soul  which  we  call  happiness. 

Now,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  here,  as  well  as  in 
regard  to  all  our  most  serious  convictions,  we  want  to 
ask  ourselves  what  we  mean  when  we  ourselves  use 
this  word ;  what  deep  idea  we  associate  with  it,  what 
spring  of  action  is  furnished  to  us.  Is  happiness  to  be  re 
garded  as  rightly  attainable,  or  is  it  to  be  set  on  one  side 
as  unworthy  the  interest  or  aim  of  thoughtful  people  ? 

At  the  outset  of  such  a  discussion  one  is  often  met 
by  those  who  beg  the  question  ;  asking  how  it  is  possi 
ble  for  a  sympathetic  soul  to  be  happy  in  the  midst  of 
a  world's  misery ;  or  if  suffering,  and  not  joy,  is  not 
the  only  true  discipline  ;  or  if  happiness  does  not  tend 
to  enervation  and  indolence?  As  I  make  these  run 
ning  suggestions  of  the  current  phrases  which  are  used 
in  this  connection,  I  am  sure  you  will  all  recognize 
them,  and  add  to  them  fuller  and  further  varieties  of 
the  same  questionings.  I  speak  of  them  because  they 
show  how  large  a  temptation  there  is  to  accept  half- 


334        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

truths',  or  to  dwell  upon  the  superficial  aspect  of  truth, 
and  ho\v  often  this  superficiality  leads  to  a  fatal  mis 
understanding  of  first  principles ;  the  danger  of  a  little 
knowledge,  not  because  it  is  small,  but  because  in  our 
ignorance  or  our  stupidity  \ve  call  it  large.  And  chiefly 
do  we  find,  in  considering  questions  of  this  import,  how 
seldom  we  allow  for  the  relations  of  things.  We  seem 
to  live  out  our  own  lives,  not  in  one  large  airy  sphere  of 
thought  and  action,  but  in  little  separate  worlds  of 
existence,  where  in  each  the  small  circumference  hems 
us  in,  and  keeps  our  spirits  and  our  reasons  bound 
round,  hopelessly  withheld  from  contact  with  the  rest. 
We  are  like  children  who  possess  a  fund  of  unrelated 
matter.  We  have  a  knowledge,  in  short,  of  the  details 
of  living,  but  not  of  the  philosophy  of  life. 

But  let  us  begin  at  the  beginning  :  i.  Is  there  such 
a  thing  as  happiness?  2.  What  is  it?  3.  How  does  it 
come?  Our  first  question  gets  its  answer  from  the  lips 
of  human  experience.  We  know  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  happiness  because  we  have  felt  it.  After  the 
manner  of  Descartes'  famous  argument  for  existence,  — 
Cogito,  ergo  sum  ("I  think,  therefore  I  am  "),  we  may 
argue  from  the  emotion  to  the  fact,  for  all  have  known 
the  note  of  joy.  It  matters  not  at  this  point  what  were 
the  causes,  what  the  sources,  or  what  the  permanence 
of  happiness ;  it  is  only  to  bear  testimony  to  the  fact 


Happiness.  335 

that  at  some  beautiful  moment,  remote  or  near,  \ve 
could  call  ourselves  happy.  So  far  it  is  not  difficult 
to  get  an  answer  to  our  question.  But  though  all  may 
know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  happiness,  and  be 
able  to  vouch  for  its  existence,  it  is  by  no  means  so 
simple  a  matter  to  say  what  it  is ;  and  here  indeed  we 
find,  as  I  said  before,  an  endless  variety  of  definition. 
To  get  at  its  meaning  we  need  to  analyze  this  emotion, 
this  rapture,  if  we  may  ;  to  discover  what  happens  in  us 
by  virtue  of  which  we  become  aware  of  a  feeling  which 
is  like  no  other  feeling,  —  in  short,  to  know  what  we 
mean  when  we  say  we  are  happy.  Perhaps  we  get  a 
clew  in  the  point  upon  which  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
all  would  agree,  —  the  nature  of  happiness.  Every  one 
would  admit  that  the  sensation  is  not  contrary  to  our 
nature,  but  in  harmony  with  it ;  it  is  a  verification,  not 
a  contradiction  of  our  personality ;  something  that  we 
call  native.  When  one  is  happy,  one  does  not  seem 
to  go  forth  into  a  strange  country,  but  to  enter  into 
one's  own  land.  When  one  is  happy,  one  feels  no 
consciousness  of  restraint  or  limitation  ;  in  short,  when 
one  is  happy,  what  is  it  but  to  feel  free  ?  I  think  in 
the  last  analysis  this  is  happiness,  —  a  sense  of  freedom. 
But  this  freedom  depends  upon  what?  And  so  we 
are  brought  to  the  third  division  of  our  question ;  for 
the  way  in  which  the  happiness  or  freedom  comes  is 


336        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

through  the  exercise  of  power  for  a  given  object.  I 
think  if  we  take  the  end  of  this  thread  in  one  hand  and 
slowly  unwind  it,  we  shall  find  it  leads  us  into  the 
heart  of  a  great  and  beneficent  mystery  which  we  have 
not  begun  to  understand.  We  shall  find,  first  of  all,  that 
it  is  by  fulfilling  the  laws  of  one's  spiritual  nature  that 
one  perceives  the  joy  of  living  to  be  a  glorious  reality. 
And  as  these  laws  are  many  and  various,  so  there  are 
many  manifestations ;  and  yet  all  are  good,  and  all 
noble,  if  only  they  spring  from  a  noble  use  of  power. 
Perhaps  the  first  and  most  important  tiling  to  take 
note  of  in  this  conception  of  happiness  is  that  it 
becomes  not  a  result  so  much  as  a  state  of  being; 
that  is,  it  is  not  a  possession  that  we  clasp,  which 
we  long  to  get,  or  which  we  fear  we  shall  lose,  — 
not  of  this  meaning  or  purport  is  joy,  —  but  we  are 
in  it,  are  one  with  it,  and  so,  finding  ourselves,  can 
not  be  rid  of  a  certain  glorious  condition.  It  involves 
the  same  analogy  as  that  by  which  the  truth  makes 
men  free ;  by  the  exercise  of  intelligent  desire  they 
achieve  the  knowledge  of  the  truth,  and  in  so  achiev 
ing  they  are  made  free.  Now,  what  is  the  assertion 
that  we  are  virtually  making,  if  we  ascribe  this  place  to 
happiness?  We  are  acknowledging  that  each  human 
being  comes  into  the  world  endowed  with  certain 
potencies  or  capacities  for  good,  and  that  these  capa- 


Happiness.  337 

cities  developed  to  their  results  produce  the  complete 
individual,  that  human  result  which  we  believe  to 
have  been  in  the  thought  of  the  Creator  regarding  each 
one  of  us  ;  and  in  becoming  that  thing  which  we  are 
meant  to  be,  we  find  joy.  It  will  easily  be  seen  that 
this  way  of  looking  at  life,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
admits  happiness  to  all,  by  no  means  excludes  pain. 
On  the  contrary,  the  powers  which  we  exercise  the 
oftenest,  involve  suffering,  discipline,  sacrifice,  grief, 
These  well-worn  but  never  out-worn  modes  of  experi 
ence  form  the  channels  in  which  we  labor  to  gain  our 
ends,  to  produce  our  results  ;  but  we  claim  that  so 
long  as  one  is  free  to  use  some  or  all  of  the  gifts  God 
has  given  him,  there  is  a  central  place  in  the  soul  where 
one  may  be  said  to  be  happy. 

Perhaps  the  first  and  most  general  illustration  of  this 
comes  in  the  doing  of  healthy  work.  Those  who  have 
never  thought  about  this  see  the  result  without  under 
standing  the  reason  for  it.  One  hears  it  said,  in 
familiar  phrase,  that  people  are  "happier"  for  being 
employed  ;  but  few  ever  dream  of  the  essential  freedom 
which  willing  labor  bestows,  by  virtue  of  which  those 
who  toil  earn  a  sweetness  of  reward  all  unknown  to  the 
idler  and  the  slave.  Of  course,  the  more  intelligent 
the  labor,  or  the  more  noble  or  enduring  the  results, 
the  greater  will  be  the  satisfaction  of  doing  it ;  but  even 


338        A    IVeck  away  from   Time. 

in  the  lowest  forms  there  comes  the  pleasure  which  is 
the  germ  of  more  complete  delight,  in  the  mere  iter 
ated  doing  of  simple  and  homely  acts  which  involve  a 
successful  use  of  power  for  a  given  purpose. 

There  is  so  much  to  say  here.  The  question  of 
labor  is  one  full  of  problems,  and  so,  full  of  interest ; 
we  meet  them  on  every  side.  There  are  those  who 
contend  that  man  labors  only  under  the  compulsion  of 
acquiring  the  necessities  of  life,  —  because  he  must ; 
while  on  the  other  hand  those  who  claim  the  dis 
tinguishing  prominence  which  marks  the  human  from 
the  brute  world  to  be  the  "  law  of  progressive  de 
sire,"  insist  upon  a  spring  of  action  that  makes  labor 
a  normal  condition  of  human  existence.  But  apart 
from  all  these  theories,  it  is  getting  more  at  the  root  of 
the  matter  to  say  simply  that  man  is  a  moral  being, 
committed  by  his  nature  to  the  fulfilment  of  moral 
purposes ;  and  that  for  him  accordingly  all  forms  of 
labor  are  beautiful  and  sacred  because  they  belong  to 
the  development  of  moral  order.  So,  whether  work 
be  done  by  the  miner  in  his  shaft  or  the  student  at 
his  book,  it  all  has  the  stamp  of  nobility,  being  essen 
tial  to  the  world's  need. 

Again,  judged  by  our  test  happiness  reaches  a  level 
of  great  fulness  in  the  sen-ice  which  we  can  render  to 
those  who  are  in  need ;  for  here  it  often  happens  that 


Happiness.  339 

all  our  powers  are  best  brought  into  exercise.  We 
may  labor  with  our  hands  for  their  bodies,  we  may 
labor  with  our  spirits  for  their  souls,  and  in  the  blessed 
stress  of  sympathy  find  manifested  to  our  hearts  yet 
deeper  depths  of  the  joy  which  comes  with  each  act 
of  patience  and  of  faith. 

Nor  let  it  be  forgotten  that  the  splendors  which  wait 
upon  the  service  of  humanity  are  the  direct  gift  of 
Christianity ;  Christ  having  gathered  the  separate 
sparks  of  human  fellowship  which  were  lit  in  the 
breasts  of  all  who  would  serve  their  fellow-men,  —  of 
Moses  and  David,  of  Epictetus  and  Socrates,  —  and 
laid  them  on  one  altar  of  brotherhood  as  a  quenchless 
flame  which  shall  not  go  out  day  nor  night  forever. 
This  brotherhood  may  suffer  at  men's  hands  on  one 
side,  so  long  as  selfishness  and  injustice  still  have  sway, 
or,  on  the  other  side,  it  may  be  perverted  nobly  but 
falsely  into  a  system  of  religion  where  man  usurps  the 
place  of  his  Maker,  as  in  the  Positivism  of  our  day ; 
but  broad  and  strong  between  these  misdoings  and 
misconceivings  runs  the  stream  of  Christian  fellowship, 
with  infinite  interchange  of  loving  service,  with  infinite 
sources  of  happiness.  Before  Christ  came,  the  prin 
ciple  of  fraternity  existed  as  a  rudiment ;  with  Him  it 
became  a  ministry  and  a  vocation,  and  in  its  ceaseless 
development  it  has  included  the  world,  filling  the 


34O        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

web  of  life  with  countless  offices  of  mutual  confidence 
and  support. 

Especially  does  it  behoove  us  to  remember  this  with 
gratitude  here  in  America,  —  America,  which  is  so  far 
the  largest  and,  thank  Heaven,  so  far  the  most  success 
ful  experiment  ever  tried  on  the  basis  of  fraternity. 
That  none  shall  be  left  in  ignorance,  that  no  limit  shall 
be  set  to  free  development,  that  every  man's  conscience 
shall  be  held  sacred,  —  this  is  the  service  to  which  we 
are  committed  in  our  country.  Is  not  this  a  noble 
freedom ;  and,  worthily  fulfilled,  would  it  not  lead  to 
peace  and  joy  ? 

So  much  for  the  test  which  may  be  applied  in  our 
life  with  others,  and  in  the  multitudinous  relations 
which  that  life  involves.  But  we  shall  find  that  the 
individual  life  also  presents  sources  of  happiness,  no 
matter  under  what  press  of  circumstance  or  weight  of 
misfortune  it  may  be  led. 

One  of  the  wisest  and  sweetest  of  philosophers  once 
wrote  these  words  :  "  For  if  good  in  its  essence  be 
in  those  things  which  depend  upon  ourselves,  then 
there  is  no  place  for  jealousy  or  envy ;  and  you  will 
not  wish  to  be  a  general  nor  a  prince  nor  a  councillor, 
but  to  be  free,  and  to  this  there  is  but  one  way,  —  dis 
dain  of  the  things  which  depend  not  upon  ourselves." 

This  has  long  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  great  lesson  in 


Happiness.  34 1 

the  art  of  living,  for  it  brings  us  to  the  immediate 
consideration  of  the  great  fact  that  along  with  the  life 
of  service  and  companionship  runs  the  life  of  in 
dependence  and  of  solitude ;  while  the  exercise  of 
power  for  and  in  others  is  largely  achieved  by  its 
exercise  for  and  in  our  own  souls  also.  Indeed,  we 
may  say  that  no  one  can  largely  help  others  who  has 
not  brought  into  control  his  own  nature.  Otherwise 
his  sympathy  is  no  better  than  that  of  a  little  child, 
which  may  solace  but  cannot  support  the  suffering 
spirit.  He  who  would  bring  another  into  the  way  of 
peace  needs  to  have  set  foot  therein ;  for  those  who 
invite  with  most  persuasive  or  most  compelling  force 
are  they  who  say  not  go,  but  come. 

So  the  gift  of  happiness  awaits  the  exercise  of  those 
powers  of  the  soul  which  have  to  do  with  the  most 
intimate  personal  life,  —  the  acts  of  faith,  the  acts  of 
patience,  the  acts  of  loyal  love,  things  done  for  the 
strengthening  and  renewal  of  the  soul's  forces ;  or, 
again,  the  solitary  resisting  of  temptation,  the  abnega 
tion  of  self,  the  loneliness  of  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
if  only  therein  it  may  draw  nearer  to  God.  Let  it  never 
be  forgotten  that  it  is  our  glorious  privilege  to  find  joy 
in  pain,  to  suffer  and  yet  be  strong,  to  take  the  world 
as  it  is  and  to  find  in  it  the  assurance  of  the  heaven 
that  shall  be.  Discouragement,  it  sometimes  seems  to 


342        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

me,  is  a  loss  of  memory ;  it  can  only  come  when  we 
forget  why  and  what  we  are. 

So  far  we  have  spoken  only  of  the  freedom  which  we 
gain  by  acting  upon  our  inner  impulses,  the  spring  of 
action  which  comes  to  us  in  a  certain  sense  from  with 
in.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  that  great  province  of 
refreshment  which  comes  to  us  in  the  form  of  gracious 
gifts,  —  the  gift  of  beauty,  the  gift  of  love  ?  These 
bestow  happiness  also  in  accordance  with  the  same 
principles.  All  about  us  lies  a  world  full  of  myste 
rious  suggestion,  of  infinite  charm  and  variety,  yet 
the  charm  rests  not  in  the  thing  itself.  Nature 
on  one  side,  and  art  on  the  other,  —  open  gates 
through  which  the  imagination  may  go  free  and  find 
delight. 

"Thou  hast  set  my  feet  in  a  large  room,"  David  said 
of  it.  And  who  does  not  know  what  the  perception  of 
Beauty  may  mean  to  the  cabined  spirit?  how  a  blade 
of  grass  or  a  patch  of  sunlight  can  unloose  to  a  soul  the 
splendors  of  the  spiritual  universe,  can  free  it  from 
the  blackness  and  the  baldness  of  prosaic  existence  in 
making  it  feel  the  power  of  its  perceptions,  the  glory 
of  its  intimations  ? 

Who  cannot  find  joy  in  a  world  where  each  soul 
may,  after  its  own  measure,  claim  the  heritage  of  which 
Wordsworth  tells  in  his  invocation  to  Toussaint? 


Happiness.  343 

"  thou  hast  great  allies, 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 

The  gift  of  Beauty  and  the  gift  of  Love.  If  we 
end  with  Love,  it  is  because  we  must  also  begin  with 
it.  From  the  mother's  embrace,  which  gives  a  first 
direction  to  the  young  soul,  all  the  way  through,  per 
haps,  to  some  consummate  human  love,  its  meaning 
is  but  one  and  the  same,  —  a  more  perfect  freedom. 
It  takes  us  a  lifetime  to  understand  this  in  its  fulness. 
While  we  are  children,  obedience  is  the  type  of  free 
dom,  and  after  we  have  left  the  narrower  walks  of 
childhood,  and  have  become  men  and  women,  it  may 
be  that  we  shall  call  it  consecration  ;  but,  by  whatever 
name,  it  is  freedom  still,  and  the  freedom  that  comes 
through  love  is  the  best  of  all,  because  Love  not  only 
allows  but  invites  the  soul  to  enter  upon  its  own,  or 
even  runs  before  with  willing  feet  to  show  us  what  we 
are  free  to  be. 

I  have  left  no  room,  nor  could  I  venture  to  speak  of 
what  may  be  discovered  when  in  the  fulness  of  a 
mutual  love  one  reaches  to  the  very  heights  of  free 
dom.  This  is  an  open  secret,  a  truth  greater  than  any 
proof  of  it  can  be.  As  such  I  leave  it. 

But  the  happiness  which  all  may  share,  this  also  is 
real ;  this  is  inseparable  from  right  living.  Some  things 


344        -A    Week  awxy  from   Time. 

we  may  have ;  this  we  must  have  Sick,  sorry,  and 
suffering  we  may  be,  —  all  these  we  undoubtedly  shall 
be,  so  long  as  life  lasts  ;  but  happy  we  must  be  when 
ever  we  do  one  loyal  deed  or  follow  one  star  of  duty. 
Happy,  because  we  fulfil  our  divine  nature  therein  ; 
happy,  because  we  serve  others  ;  but,  far  deeper  still, 
happy  because  we  are  unconsciously  made  one  with 
the  Divine  Will. 

After  Mrs.  Nye's  guests  had  said  good-night 
and  good-by  (for  they  were  going  to  leave  Fair 
Harbor  the  next  morning),  and  Mrs.  Chauncey 
had  assured  her  hosts  that  she  had  never  had 
such  a  delightful  evening  in  all  her  life,  "  espe 
cially  those  heavenly  cohort  cakes,"  she  said, 
the  good  old  couple  stood  together  under  the 
stars,  and  watched  the  retreating  forms  till  they 
could  no  longer  be  seen. 

"Well,  father,  what  do  you  think  now?"  said 
Mrs.  Nye. 

"  I  think  you  were  right,  mother,  as  you 
mostly  are,  and  I  think  that  Professor  is  one 
of  the  noblest  men  God  ever  made ;  and  I  think 
he  is  good  enough  for  Mis'  Temple,  God  bless 
her  !  I  can't  say  more  'n  that,  can  I  ?  " 


A    Week  away  from   Time.        345 

"  \Yas  n't  it  beautiful  to  hear  him  read  his  dis 
course  in  that  fine,  manly  voice ;  and  did  you 
notice  Mis'  Temple's  face,  and  see  how  starry- 
like  her  eyes  were,  and  how  proud  and  happy 
she  looked?  I  guess  she's  come  as  near  finding 
out  the  secret  of  happiness  as  folks  often  does; 
and  if  ever  a  woman  deserved  it,  she  's  the  one." 

"  Amen  to  that!  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  But  that  ain't  all,"  pursued  his  wife.  "  I 
don't  suppose  you  noticed  anything  between 
Mr.  Ralph  and  that  handsome  young  English 
lady,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come,  mother,  I  can't  take  in  so  much 
all  at  one  time !  You  do  beat  all !  I  've  got 
enough  to  think  over  now;  you  can't  be  pairin* 
off  everybody.  I  dare  say  you  '11  be  makin'  a 
match  between  Jim  Canaan  and  the  French 
Mamzelle,  they  bcin'  about  the  only  single  ones 
left  to  speculate  on." 

"  I  might  make  a  crazier  speculation  than 
that,"  answered  Mrs.  Nyc,  shaking  her  head 
mysteriously.  "  This  has  been  a  terrible  inter- 
estin'  week  for  the  folks  at  the  White  House, 
you'd  just  better  believe  me!" 


346        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

"  I  do  believe  you  always,  mother,"  said  the 
Captain  affectionately ;  "  and  there  's  one  thing  I 
know,  —  that  they  can't  none  of  'em  choose  wiser 
than  I  did,  nor  live  happier  than  you  Ve  made 
me  live,  not  if  they  try  ever  so  !  " 

Mrs.  Nye  gave  her  husband  a  kiss  for  all 
answer,  and  they  went  up  the  little  garden 
walk,  back  into  their  peaceful  home. 

As  the  others  were  walking  slowly  by  the 
path  through  the  fields  to  the  White  House, 
the  Professor  said,  "  Who  can  remember  those 
lines  from  Matthew  Arnold's  '  Empcdocles  on 
^Etna'?  Charicles'  song,  is  it  not?  It  begins 

1  Where  the  moon-silvered  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice.' 

It  is  running  in  my  head  to-night,  but  I  can  get 
no  farther." 

"  They  are  favorite  lines  of  mine,"  said 
Margaret  "  I  think  I  know  them.  I  believe 
I  was  thinking  of  them  just  now  myself:  — 

'  Where  the  moon-silvered  inlets 

Send  far  their  light  voice, 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe 
Oh  speed  and  rejoice  ! 


A    Week  away  from    Time,        34  7 

'  On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 

Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks  ; 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

'  What  forms  are  these  coming 

So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flowered  broom  ? 

'  What  sweet-breathing  presence 

Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime  ? 

'  'T  is  Apollo  comes  leading 

His  choir  the  Nine  ; 
The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

'  Whose  praise  do  they  mention  ? 

Of  what  is  it  told  ? 
What  will  be  forever  ? 
What  was  from  of  old  ? 

'  First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things  :  and  then, 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men  ; 


548        A    Week  away  from   Time. 

'The  clay  in  its  hotness, 

The  strife  with  the  palm  ; 
The  night  in  her  silence, 
The  stars  in  their  calm.'  " 


Nobody  went  to  bed  very  much  that  night. 
Muriel  was  closeted  for  some  time  with  Mrs. 
Temple ;  the  two  sisters  had  a  long  talk 
together,  and  finally  Margaret  and  Ralph,  far 
into  the  night.  As  Ralph  left  her  room,  she 
said,  — 

"  Then  you  go  to  see  Muriel's  parents  to 
morrow?  Bell  is  very  anxious  to  know  if  you 
have  kept '  Lady  Barberina'  sufficiently  in  mind. 
She  goes  all  lengths  in  admiration  of  Muriel,  but 
'Lady  Barberina'  troubles  her." 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to-morrow,"  said  Ralph, 
*'  in  spite  of  '  Lady  Barberina.'  I  cannot  be 
lieve  it,  even  now,  Margaret.  Great  Heaven ! 
It  is  inscrutable !  That  she  can  possibly  care 
for  me  !  And  yet,  she  has  said  it ! " 

The  brother  and  sister  stood  hand  in  hand  for 
a  moment  without  speaking.  Then  he  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  whispered,  "  My  dearest,  I  would 


A    Week  away  from   Time.        349 

not  give  you  up  to  any  other  man  in  the  world  ! 
But  you  and  Philip  are  worthy  one  of  the  other. 
Gqd  bless  you,  as  He  will  forever !  " 

The  last  morning  had  come,  the  last  fare 
wells  had  been  spoken,  and  Margaret  was  left 
alone  at  Fair  Harbor. 

"  It  has  been  a  wonderful  week,"  Bell  had 
said,  "  and  it  is  a  wonderful  Gulf  Stream  !  I 
believe  in  it !  I  salute  it !  It  is  a  marvel- 
worker,  a  magician,  a  fateful  stream !  " 

Margaret  stood  in  the  sunshine,  her  faithful 
dog  by  her  side. 

"Erin,"  she  said,  "you  remember  my  dream 
of  the  springtime !  It  is  autumn  now,  but  my 
dream  has  come  true  !  " 


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